Ain't No Rest For The Wicked
by Mogitz
Summary: When an absent, successful Hollywood couple moves in with their two small children and a live-in nanny, Sawyer, strange things begin happening at Murder House. Will she reunite Tate with his love? Or is it time to move on? Tate/OC. COMPLETE.
1. Rumors

**Chapter 1**

**Rumors**

_Authors Note: Like the majority, I wasn't too excited about the finale of AHS. And, (spoiler alert!) reading interviews with Ryan Murphy and seeing that next season won't focus on Murder House whatsoever made me feel disappointed but excited for the challenge to muse over what they could have done for the Harmon family and the residents of Murder House in season 2._

_And again, like the majority, I am a Tate/Violet fan, but I feel as though there are a lot of fics out there for them. So I'm not entirely sure what direction this fic is going to go to, but every character will make an appearance and Tate will have a big role. Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>

When Sawyer took the job she knew full well what she was up against; a 6 month old baby and a 3 year old toddler. But it was summer, school was out. She needed the money.

She also knew the stories behind "Murder House." She had been on the tour before. She only lived right up the street, grew up on it, actually. So she had heard the rumors. Heard the gossip. She had been there on the lawn with all of the other lookie-Lou's that watched in horror as the Harmon family (or better yet, what was left of the Harmon family) was taken from the house in white sheets. And although she would never admit it, she had seen things in the windows when the house was vacant. Shadows glaring at her through the windows. She had heard the crying.

But Sawyer didn't really believe in ghosts, so the idea of practically living in the old house for the summer as a live-in nanny for a busy LA couple didn't seem too scary to her. Even still, she couldn't help the involuntary shiver that chilled her spine when she first stepped into the foyer. The sprawling staircase could be seen skulking down the hallway. The Tiffany fixtures twinkled with sunlight.

The house didn't seem haunted to her. No, it seemed...magical. Like there were stories in the walls aching to be told. She didn't feel scared. She felt eyes on her. She felt watched. As she waited for Mrs. Grant to finish her phone call, she wandered the bottom floor, taking it all in. Her feet lightly rapped on the hardwood floor, gently sending click-clacks in the the echoing rooms. The house was still essentially empty. White sheets covered most of the furnishing and there were boxes stacked in the corners, ones that she didn't know who to assume they belonged to: previous or new tenets.

Sawyer heard a dull creaking from the top of the stairs. She paused, her eyes trying desperately to make sense of the dark shadows at the top of the stairs. She heard frantic whispering, one shadow leaning to another.

"There you are," Mrs. Grant said behind her, causing her heart to skip a beat. Redness rushed to her cheeks, embarrassed at her childish imagination getting the best of her. "Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Are you old enough for coffee?" Mrs. Grant was certainly beautiful. She was a retired sitcom actress, although retiring in Hollywood was a lot different that retiring in the real world. For one thing, she couldn't have been a day over 32. She had a gracefulness about her that Sawyer could only wish to have one day; an elegance. Flowy, long brown hair, dark eyes. She was Greek. Olive skin. Legs that wouldn't quit, some old fellow in the '40s might say. She was timeless.

"I am certainly old enough to have coffee," Sawyer smirked. "But I can't stand the stuff. Tea would be nice, though." With that, Mrs. Grant led her to the kitchen.

The kitchen was the in the process of being gutted. Counter tops were missing, cupboards deconstructed. An old stove was replacing a newer one. Mrs. Grant walked to it and put a pot of water on it.

"Please, excuse the mess. When we bought this place, I thought it had a lovely kitchen, but Richard thought that the kitchen threw off the historical presence of the house. Once a director, always a director, I say." Sawyer nodded, not sure what to say in response. She kept feeling like a hand was going to be placed on her shoulder at any moment. "We also met the housekeeper today. She's not trained to be a nanny but she will be handling other things around the house. Myra, I think she said her name was."

"Moira." An older woman with fiery red hair corrected from the doorway. Sawyer didn't mean to stare, but there was definitely something off about her. Perhaps is was her outdated house maid's outfit. Perhaps it was her lazy right eye. Whatever it was, Sawyer pried her eyes away from her and back to the stove, where the pot began to whistle thinly. Mrs. Grant jumped to get it. "Oh, allow me, Mrs. Grant." Moira insisted, hurrying ahead of her.

"Rebecca," Mrs. Grant corrected. Moira raised her eyebrows in confusion.

"Pardon me?"

"My name is Rebecca. Mrs. Grant makes me feel so old," Rebecca chuckled. "So that goes for both of you. Call me Rebecca." The fact that Rebecca's beauty was only surpassed by his niceness made Sawyer sick. She had a habit of mentally comparing herself to beautiful women she came across. Sawyer was petite, small boned. That included small breasts and a small butt. That drove her crazy the most. She always expected that she would grow, but ever since 9th grade she never grew an inch in any direction. She felt frozen in a body she loathed. Sawyer was far from ugly. She had whimsical green eyes and long wavy hair that reached the middle of her back, a lot of it, too. It contrasted well with her beautifully tanned skin. But she always hated staring at people's knees. She was short, and for that she always felt disadvantaged.

"Anyway," Rebecca began again, "enough of that. Time to talk about why you're here, Sawyer." Sawyer shifted her weight in her chair as Moira placed a steaming cup of Earl Grey in front of her. She gently stirred, watching the teabag bob in the water. "I know it's going to be a grueling schedule, but that's what happens when you're in the biz," Rebecca smiled. "I need you to watch over Caden and Phebe at least 5 days a week, weekdays and some weekends. It's going to be a busy summer, but I promise you we will make it well worth it."

"I thought you were retired?" Sawyer wondered aloud. Rebecca sighed.

"Don't let anyone fool you. You can't retire from this career. You always crave it. Now that I've gotten my personal trainer and my body is coming back, I'm hoping to make a comeback. Believe me. It's a sacrifice. I'm going to miss those little guys so much this summer, but this is too important. Besides, between you and Moira I really don't think they'll be lacking in anything."

"Of course not, ma'am." Moira smiled. "And may I ask where your little ones are now?"

"They are with Richard for some quality time before he has to go out of town for two months to shoot his new movie."

"Must be a hard life to get used to," Sawyer mused. Rebecca stared out at nothing in particular.

"You have no idea.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

He told her he was never going to leave her. And the sane part of him that still respected people and their wishes told him to do as she asked. They say that love means letting go; not to him. Love meant gripping, holding, needing. One day...one day she was going to need him. She was going to forgive him. He just knew this.

So he did exactly opposite of what she said. He did what he promised her from the beginning. He refused to make himself invisible to her.

He was there for her whenever she decided that she wanted him again. There was never going to be anyone else, although Hayden did try. And he almost caved. Being 16 forever made it hard to control his..urges. One day Hayden walked up to him out of nowhere and grabbed his crotch. It took the air right out of him. She was always showing up, half naked, killing him whenever he rejected (which was every time). He'd have to masturbate every time afterward. But all he could think about was Violet. Her skin. Her hair.

And he figured that it wasn't going to take long, but she never appeared to him. She stayed hidden. He was out like a sitting duck, waiting for her to finally appear to him, forgive him, make love to him again.

"_What is it about being dead that makes me so horny?_" He remembered Hayden saying. She was right. No inhibitions. But, as he figured out so tragically, there were still consequences. Ones he could never even forgive himself for, let alone assume she would forgive him one day.

Trouble was, no matter how much he loved her, he hated Violet Harmon. In the months since she left him standing there, tears rolling down his face, their lips had still be touching when she disappeared, his sadness had decomposed into a bitter anger that caused him to lash out more than he had in the past. He was frustrated. He was devastated that she could be so stubborn.

Mostly, he was mad that she lied. He thought they had a love that would transcend any hang ups, no matter how scandalous. But she couldn't take it. And it was only a matter of time before that Gabriel had moved in and she practically threw herself at him. If she was trying to get a rise out of him, she certainly succeeded.

So much was bouncing off the walls of his mind as he lay there, trying to remember what sleep felt like. _Ain't no rest for the wicked._ The dead don't sleep. He looked beside him. Hayden stared at the ceiling.

"I don't care how bored I get," Hayden said bitterly, "we are never fucking again." She rolled over to her side, facing him. "I mean...that was just sad." She didn't smile. Hayden never smiled. "I mean, you have tears in your eyes. You called me Violet. I honestly think that is the worst I've ever had." With that, Hayden popped up and began dressing. "And don't worry. I'm not going to tell your little flower. Not that it matters. You're not together. So you have nothing to cry about!" Hayden was becoming increasingly irritated with Tate's unresponsiveness.

"I'm not crying," Tate said defensively. Hayden leaned down and ran a finger down his cheek. She rubbed the moisture between her finger and thumb.

"Oh yeah? What do you call that?" she scoffed. "You're pathetic." Tate was besides himself by her cruel words. Hadn't she been lovesick before? Of course she had! Tate remembered her sneaking around the house to spy on Ben only months earlier. In fact, she was still guilty of it even now.

"You're a bitch," Tate sighed.

"A bitch?" Hayden raised her voice. "I'm not a bitch, I'm a realist! And even so, I'm glad I'm not a pussy! Buck up, buttercup. Get over it. She's not coming back. You fucked it up." Hayden slipped her jeans over her slender thighs and thought for a moment before a sly smile crept across her face. "Ya know, I did overhear the new owner interviewing a girl downstairs today. She's cute. About your age. Apparently she's gonna be the new nanny. Maybe it's time you get over that little Violet." With a wink and a shrug, Hayden was gone. And Tate was alone.

_Good._

He liked it better that way, anyway.


	2. I Think It's Gonna Rain Today

**Chapter 2**

I Think It's Gonna Rain Today**  
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_A/N: I don't own anything. Thanks for the reviews... Kinda long. Hope you like it!_

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><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

It seemed like a good idea at the time, babysitting. But when Ben caught her in the kitchen filling out an application to nanny those babies he almost had a heart attack.

"We don't play games with them, Violet. We don't get attached. We get them out of here." He had said.

But Violet was lonely. It wasn't the same not having Tate's company. She had tried befriending others. Sometimes she played with Beau or Larry's girls, but on the most part, everyone here was miserable. Forlorn. She had always liked that word but never had a reason to use it. She felt forlorn.

She had, however, found a friend in Chad, no matter how cynical or lovesick he still was after everything Patrick had said. Who was she kidding. She wasn't even half as committed to Tate as Chad and Patrick were but she was certain she would never recover from that one. She couldn't blame Chad for sulking around. And at least they had each other to bitch to.

She had seen the new girl. Sawyer, she thought she had heard. Couldn't help but note how pretty she was.

_Prettier than me._

She wondered instinctively if Tate would find her pretty. Of course he would. She worried about Sawyer, worried about her falling into the same Tate trap she had fallen into. Or worse. Tate falling for Sawyer the same way he had fallen for her. The thought made her involuntarily ill. She lay on her bed, wishing for just a moment that it was socially acceptable to forgive the man who raped her mother, killed people, attacked her father, broke her heart…all of that. Unfortunately, even if you have eternity to forgive someone, there are some things that you just can't forgive. She figured the above reasons were good enough.

And over time, she still missed him. But she missed him less. And decided that what she needed was companionship…maybe it didn't really matter who it was as long as she could feel loved. Protected. Cared for. She missed kissing. She missed physical contact.

That's why she wanted to babysit. She could love on those children the way she would have loved on all her little siblings that she never had. Even with Vivien preoccupied with the baby, it was still a baby that would never grow. Never live. And those two little ones that lived here now would need protecting from the ways of the house. Someone had to do it. Might as well have been here. She had nothing else to lose. She was already dead.

Violet wandered the house, invisible to everyone. She watched Tate have a conversation with Constance. Watched the Caden and Phebe play and eat and nap. She watched Rebecca fight on the phone with her husband. She had only stolen quick glances of him here or there. Since they had moved in he had hardly been around. Violet wondered if he was having an affair like her father had. All she was now was a silent observer.

Violet felt even more lost now than she ever had in life. Yes, her family was healed but who did she have to really understand her. Tate understood her. She also knew that the greatest gift she could possibly give him was her forgiveness. She knew no matter how miserable she was, he was worse. He never went invisible to her. He was always there. But he couldn't see her. She could have reached out so many times. Touched him. Kissed him. Forgave him. But she couldn't.

_No. It's better this way._

She watched him write her notes. Some were lovesick, emotional flurries of words. _"I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you,"_ they would repeat. Others were angry. _"I FUCKING HATE YOU, VIOLET. EVEN IF YOU FORGIVE ME I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS PAIN…"_ It didn't surprise Violet that half the time he didn't know if he was coming or going.

Violet sat in her room, staring at the wall. Thoughts paraded in her mind over and over again. She was mentally making a soundtrack to her life when she saw it. The thin piece of paper being slid under her door. This wasn't new to her. Tate wrote her almost every day.

Violet dragged her feet to the door, afraid of what Tate she was going to get today. She held the note gingerly in her hands and peered down at the note, still wet from something. Tears maybe?

_Violet._

_I don't want to miss you anymore. I don't want to love you anymore. I don't want to hate you anymore._

_And if crossing over means dying after you are already dead, maybe it's time I figure out how to do that._

_Because an eternity in Hell or darkness or whatever the hell comes next would be relief from being in the same house as you and not being able to hold you._

_Your Tate. Always your Tate._

Violet went down to the only place she knew he would be, his basement. There he was, knees to his chest, rocking himself on the floor, sobbing like a little boy. Tears and saliva fell from his face and onto the floor as he cried a painful, agonizing cry. He wiped them away angrily but they just kept coming. Her heart broke the way it had when she told him goodbye. For a moment she wondered who had hurt who more…her or him?

She did something she hadn't allowed herself to do since the moment she banished him. Violet went to him. But she refused to let him see her. She was feeling weak right now. If she allowed him to see her, she would cave. She would take him right then and there and that would be it. Tate and Violet forever. But she wouldn't.

So she did what she couldn't stop herself from doing. She reached to him, hugging him from behind, stroking his hair wanting so badly to take his pain away. They rocked together. His crying calmed as she kissed his head and held him tightly, all the while remaining invisible to his tear filled eyes. She soothed his broken heart as much as she could before having to tear herself away from him to avoid the risk of being seen.

"Violet?" he whispered as she stood watching him from the doorway. Her heart broke as he searched for her. She turned and walked back up to her room where she had crying of her own to do.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Constance Langdon<strong>_

Constance sat, drumming her nicely manicured nails across the dining room table with a gentle clicking. Her other hand rested nervously below her chin as she waited, shifting her weight uncomfortably from thigh to thigh. Since she had taken the only thing she wanted, her beautiful grandson Michael, from the clutches of all of the baby-hungry undead that dwell inside these walls, she made it a point to keep her visits short. But over the course of the years in and next door to Murder House, she had also made it a point to always know the goings-on within the walls as well. And now that The Grants had made a swift purchase of the house, she had to introduce herself. After all, two of her children were permanent fixtures. Bad blood with the neighbors could hinder her from ever seeing them as openly as she would like.

So she waited for Moira to bring her tea. She didn't intend to drink it. She never took anything from Moira unless she had watched it prepared from start to finish. Moira had a habit of including 'extra' ingredients, most of which garnered unpleasant results. Rebecca was putting the baby down for a nap, but soon she would be back to pick up the small talk where they had left off: Constance candidly discussing her mongoloid daughter. However, the tone in her stories about Addie had switched from contempt and burden to sorrow and woe, two things Constance was no stranger to.

"What are you doing here?" a familiar and always welcome voice rang. She always felt a flurry of emotions when Tate took the time to make himself visible to her, even if it was only to attack her with hurtful words. Today he seemed more morose than usual, but it was to be expected from him since the days that Violet told him she never wanted to see him again and meant it. He had been crying. A mother can tell.

"Tate, darling," Constance breathed, as if the wind was knocked out of her. "What are you doing, making yourself seen like this? The Mrs. will be back down any moment."

"What," Tate began, his eyes burning into her, "can't a boy say hello to his mother, anymore?" He crossed the room slowly, never taking his eyes from her. She rang her hands nervously, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear.

"Of course, my love, of course you can. I just wouldn't want you to be caught. Explaining your presence may be a bit…uncomfortable for her." Tate smirked.

"Maybe she should just know right away. No more bullshitting," Tate said with a dark determination. "I mean, what's the point of befriending these people when Ben and Vivien are so damn set on running everyone out of this place the second they move in. That real estate agent must be damn near suicide if one more sale falls through…" Tate mused. Constance closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

"Just go, Tate. Your mother will talk to you later when it's more appropriate." And when she opened her eyes he was gone. Tate was the only child she had that really broke her heart. Beau and Addie couldn't help their conditions; they were born with their disadvantages. Tate, however, was a monster as a result of Constance herself, and that was even harder to sleep on that Beau and Addie.

And then there was Gwendolyn. Her daughter. The one that ran away when she was 16 and never looked back, never found a trace of her as well. The police had spent months looking for her. The case went cold, switching from 'runaway' to a search for a body, one that would never be found. Gwendolyn was perfect, as Constance saw Tate to be. Twins. They shared a brain, shared a heart. She had ran away only months before Tate has used his school as a flashy form of suicide, and something in Constance knew that Gwendolyn may have been one of the triggers in that fateful day. It certainly had its ripple effect; the police sniffing around Constance to find her daughter caused them to question her mothering, and caused them to find Beau, chained in the attic. The spiral continued as Constance let Larry murder her Beauregard, which enraged Tate more than he was already festering. Larry set on fire. Tate killing 15 students. Police killing Tate. Constance wanting to kill herself.

Losing three children within the same year changes a woman. But Constance never changed. Then again, Constance has never been just a normal woman, as well.

"Sorry about the wait, I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," Rebecca said politely. Constance composed herself, her misty eyes quickly drying, suppressing a slight sniffle with a polite smile.

"No, I am fine," Constance assured, before shouting out toward the kitchen, "although that tea would be very nice about now." On cue, Moira emerged from the kitchen with her tea tray for Rebecca and Constance.

"My apologies," Moira said with her head down. Constance smirked.

"Impossible to find good help, these days," she said under her breath. Rebecca cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"That'll be all, Moira, thank you so much." Moira disappeared back into the kitchen without a word while Rebecca sat at the table across from Constance. "So, you've lived her long?"

"All my years," Constance said brightly. "I never got my big break like you, but I wanted it so badly. Children have a way of stopping those dreams, however." Constance's eyes averted straight to the baby monitor sat upright on the table. Rebecca smiled weakly.

"It is quite the challenge. That's why I got a live-in nanny. You may know her. Sawyer Greene, from right up the street? She'll be here more than I will. Quite mature for a 17-year-old." Panic struck Constance's heart as she thought about those 17 short years. She was so young. The house would claim her soul the very first chance it got. And if she knew her son well, she could say that the small, big eyed and bushy tailed Sawyer was just his type.

"You're to trust a 17-year-old with your most prized possessions, your babies?" Constance said aghast. "That won't do…"

"I know plenty of mothers who-"

"Plenty of mothers don't live in this house." Constance cut her off, then mulled over that sentence. Perhaps Tate was right. Maybe no more bullshitting. Maybe Rebecca just needed to know right away. The house was definitely easier for Constance to watch over and visit when it was empty. "I'm sorry for being so candid. But this house is…spirited."

"You mean…" Rebecca trailed off, her big eyes shining.

"Things move. Things creak. Doors lock." Constance wouldn't scare her with the gory details. "I just think you should consider a facility. A day-care."

"Oh, that's not necessary. Besides, day-cares won't have the hours I need. I would rather Caden and Phebe be at their own home. Their own beds…"

"Their own graves," Constance dared. She knew almost immediately that she shouldn't have. Fire flashed in Rebecca's eyes and her jaw tightened.

"Excuse me? Don't you dare talk about my children that way, don't even think it!" Rebecca snapped. Constance sat quietly determining how to backtrack.

"I beg your pardon, Rebecca. It's just…this house warrants much emotion from me. I lost two children in this house, and one ran away-"

"Perhaps I should question your decision-making then, Mrs. Langdon," Rebecca challenged. Constance let it bounce off of her skin and continued.

"In either way…this house is cursed. The Harmon's. That dreadful homosexual couple. The nurses…and so many more. This house has claimed many lives. You will need more protection for your children than a 17-year-old girl." Constance said, almost pleading. Rebecca stood, moving the cup of tea away from Constance to signal that she was no longer welcome.

"I'm not afraid of ghost stories, Mrs. Langdon. Haven't been since I was 5. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have lots of work to do." Rebecca stared towards the front door. Constance stood, fixed her hair, held her hear up high and said the only thing she could think of.

"You're gonna regret it." And at the same time, she could have sworn she heard Addie laugh.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

When Sawyer got to the house, Rebecca was still visibly shaken. Although it was clear she was trying to swallow her fear, it still poured out through her eyes. Sawyer saw little Caden, the toe-headed three year old resting happily on the couch, a toy car firmly in one hand, a sippy cup in the other, while he watched the television intently. Sleep was still in his eyes from his afternoon nap. Rebecca was on her computer to distract herself from unpleasant thoughts, answering e-mails as Pheebs slept soundly upstairs.

"Are you okay?" Sawyer wondered aloud. Rebecca sighed and shut her laptop before turning to her. She forced a weak smile.

"We need to talk about something important," Rebecca began. Sawyer sat on the bar stool close to Rebecca. "It's just…Do you know Mrs. Langdon next door?" Sawyer nodded. "I just want to be clear. She's not welcome here. She said some things I didn't care for today and I don't need her around her scaring you and the children with her ghost stories."

"Ghost stories?" Sawyer echoed. At that moment, a loud creaking groaned from upstairs. Sawyer felt a chill. By the look in Rebecca's eyes, she was frazzled as well. "I mean, it is Murder House but I hardly believe in ghosts, Rebecca." Rebecca seemed comforted by this. After a few encounters in her childhood she would rather forget, she had always been skeptical. But it made her glad to hear that Sawyer was less convinced of the supernatural.

"Forgive me, Sawyer," Rebecca sighed, brushing a frustrated hand through her hair. "I am just being a little ridiculous, is all. I haven't told anyone this, because I didn't want to seem crazy but…" she bit her bottom lip, unsure of whether to continue. "Last week before I interviewed you, I interviewed another girl. A 16-year-old. She was nice…a little dark but nice enough. Said her name was Violet. But when I left the room for a split second to check on Caden, I came back in and she was just…gone. I haven't seen her since." Rebecca laughed at her own foolishness. Sawyer felt a strange flittering in her stomach. Either Rebecca didn't know the history or never watched the news. But a 16-year-old girl named Violet had just died in the home only months ago.

_Must be coincidence…_

A loud, high pitched screaming could be heard from the upstairs nursery. Rebecca stood, but Sawyer stopped her.

"I've got it. It's what I'm here for, remember?" Sawyer smirked before hurrying to the stairs. When she peered to the top of the stairs, she saw light haired, dark eyed boy, hands in his pockets, peering down at her. Sunlight lit him in a way that made him glow. He looked like an angel. She blinked. He was gone. It nearly took the wind out of her. She was certain that she was hallucinating. Still, the baby screamed so she hurried up the stairs against her better judgment.

Sawyer neared the nursery where the baby cried, her palms feeling sweaty and her stomach in knots, all the while feeling as though someone was right behind her, following closely. She opened the door and was welcomed by brightly painted yellow nursery with white moldings, a beautiful white crib before the window with sheer curtains catching sunlight. It felt so warm in there. Maybe even stuffy.

"Pheebs," she sang, "no crying, baby girl. I'm here-" Sawyer gulped on her words as she stared down at the beautiful baby, her eyes closed peacefully as she continued to sleep. Sawyer stepped back away from the crib slowly as the crying continued. She searched frantically around the room for a speaker, a baby? Even she didn't know what she was looking for. All she knew was that there was a baby crying somewhere. But it wasn't Phebe.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

Tate sat in Ben's office. Ben merely tolerated his presence, never spoke to him. Lots of the time Tate would talk to Ben as if he was still his shrink, but Ben would just listen. Never respond.

Tate's puffy eyes stared straight at Ben. His heart still ached in his chest.

"Ben…" he began. Ben kept reading. Never looked up. Never acknowledged him. Tate didn't care. "I could smell her today."

**To be continued...**


	3. Like Knives

**Chapter 3**

**Like Knives**

_A/N Ahhhh I have to admit…I am so driven by positive reinforcement! Thank you for your kind reviews :-) And although I have a direction for this fic, I am a smidge torn on where the ships will sail, if ya know what I mean. I know it's hard to tell now, but obviously Sawyer Greene is a possible love interest for our dear Tate. Torn between my love for Violate, but like most fangirls, I want him for myself. We'll just have to see as the story progresses. Alsooooo. Music is a huge driving force for me. If you haven't already, listen to Like Knives by City and Colour. Very moving song. Keep Calm and Carry On! _

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><p><em><strong>Ben Harmon<strong>_

The thought of it made Ben feel sick to his stomach.

She was with him today. She was invisible, thankfully, but it became instantly clear to Ben that it was only going to take a matter of time before Violet caved. He knew his daughter. He knew her heart and her capacity to love and to forgive…how many ways could he explain to her aching heart that what Tate had done really was unforgivable? And although he hated to admit it…even _he_ felt for the kid. He was completely convinced that his empathy for Tate had to do with his big, sad eyes. The ones he let well up and flow with tears. The act was more and more convincing every day. But when Ben really looked deep into those puppy-dog eyes, searching for answers, he found nothing; a blank stare where a soul should have been looking back at him.

From all his years of schooling, it was clear to Ben that Tate Langdon was an open and shut case of Psychopathy: narcissistic, conniving, manipulative. He was a damn good actor. And Ben had no doubt that somewhere in Tate's twisted little existence, he had a love for his daughter that wasn't going to quit. This was going to be an eternal battle. And it just so happened that now they had eternity to work things out.

There really were only three choices: Violet move on, Tate move on, or Ben figure out a way to banish Tate for good. He remembered Moira telling Vivien a story one night about a spirit who had found a loophole in this whole Murder House thing. She got out. She had crossed over. No one knew how she had done it though. Somehow, someway, he was going to have to get Tate to cross over. There was certainly no way Violet could live with him for all eternity and never speak to him again, no matter how horrible he really was. In all honesty…Ben wasn't even completely sure he could go for all eternity without responding to Tate during his one-sided therapy sessions.

Ben ran an exasperated hand through his dark hair, exhaling all of his thoughts. He could only imagine the torment in his daughter's head. She was never around, always invisible. Now that she wasn't alive, she couldn't just hide in her room at all times she found other ways to shut herself out from the world. She needed someone to talk to, this much Ben knew. All things aside, at least for a short while he knew his Violet had felt as though she had someone who understood her in Tate. Someone to help her through her teen angst of school and her peers. Now, no matter how close they had all become, he knew Violet was more alone than ever.

Since they had died, Vivien and Ben had been quite preoccupied with the baby, Jeffrey. But they had also been busy watching the people who toured the house, trying to make sure no more souls were taken at the mercy of Murder House. But then the Grants bought the house, sight unseen, and before he knew it they were settling in. The fact that they had two young children made Ben's skin crawl. He shuddered at the memory of watching the spirits within connive to take his children. In retrospect, it was so clear what was happening to his family.

_Good._ Moira had said. _You're finally seeing things for how they really are._

And deep down, Ben knew he was responsible for so much that had happened to his family. If Tate was the antagonist, Ben himself was certainly the catalyst. He had the affair. He moved them to Murder House. He didn't get them out of Murder House as soon as he could have, didn't believe Vivien.

Familiar hands rested on his shoulders before sliding down to his chest. Strawberry blonde, curly hair enveloped him as he took in her scent. Vivien kissed his temple, he could hear her lips part into a smile.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. He wasn't sure where to start. So much had been running through his head that he was almost exhausted physically. He let out a deep sigh and rubbed his dry eyes.

"Same thing I'm always thinking about," he retorted.

"Violet?" Vivien guessed. It was always the answer these days. It seemed like Ben worried about her now more than he ever had before. He nodded. "She'll snap out of it eventually, Ben. She always does. It's not easy being a 16-year-old girl…especially now." Now that she was dead.

"She's mourning so much, Viv," Ben said helplessly. "She's mourning us. She's mourning herself…she's mourning…"

"Tate?" Vivien's voice spit the name out quickly. She didn't like to let it linger. The name tied Ben's stomach in knots. To think of him with his daughter. With his wife. "Ben…I know it's all still very raw right now. I don't think I could ever look that monster in the eye again after what he did to our family. But let's try to see the silver lining in all of this. We are together. More together than we ever were in life." Vivien's positivity about the situation made Ben feel eased, but took note of his wife's naivety. Even if it took a thousand years, Ben didn't know if he had the capacity to ever forgive Tate. Even if he never forgave him, he would certainly never be able to forget.

"Viv…you do know it's just a matter of time before she forgives him, right? He could sense her today. She's been getting curious. I'm just so scared I'm not going to be able to stop her…"

"We know Violet very well. She goes along and does whatever she wants. We can't stop her, Ben. We couldn't even save her." Those words stung. Ben pictured her. Dying alone. Crying. Knowing full well that he was too preoccupied with himself and his marriage to notice her slipping away. There were times when he wasn't sure that he, himself, wasn't a monster as well. "She might forgive him one day. And we're just going to need to accept that one way of another," tears filled her eyes at the very thought. Ben slammed his fist down on his desk.

"Damn it, Vivien! It's not that easy!" Ben stood, the chair pushed far across the room. Vivien was startled by his outburst. She folded her arms protectively across her chest, backing away as Ben began pacing the office.

"Calm down, Ben."

"I can't!" he said sternly. He grabbed her arms and gave her a light, passionate shake. "Don't you get it? I can't just forgive and forget after what he…what he…" Ben dropped to his knees, quiet sobs shaking his body. He held her legs. Vivien caressed her husband's head lovingly. There was nothing she could do to heal him. They all needed more time. They all expected that they would have more time to heal and move on from their tragedies. But Tate's influence was wearing Violet down. And somehow or another…he got to her today.

"Do you really think I like this, Ben? Let's be honest here. Violet isn't the only one who's in mourning. We all are! Some people in this house haven't even accepted that they are dead." Vivien dropped to her knees to look her husband in the eyes. She took his face in her hands. "This is no time to fall apart. We are strong. We can overcome anything. We are Harmons."

She was right. And Ben decided that one way or another, they would have to find a way to overcome Tate.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

She_ knew_ it was a big mistake to go to him; whether she was seen or not he still felt her. And being ever so full of dumb ideas, he told her father that he sensed her. She had overheard her parents in the office. Now they were worried. _NOW_ they were worried. Not worried when she was cutting herself or smoking. No, now that she was already dead did they worry. That just made everything seem even more hopeless. She was hidden for a reason. She didn't want people, her parents especially, to know her business.

Today was her weekly visit with Chad. Something that they had struck up when they realized they were both reeling from broken hearts. Plus, she always wanted a gay friend. She felt so progressive. In all honesty, she liked that Chad was real with her. He always told her like it was, not like she wanted it to be. So she wasn't the least bit surprised when he started in on her today for moping around the house.

"Ugh, can I just say something?" Chad asked, his knitting needles still crisscrossing feverishly. Violet sat in front of him somberly, her arms extended out holding his yarn.

"I'm not entirely certain I have a choice," Violet smirked weakly. "I didn't have a choice when it came to being your yarn bitch…" she joked halfheartedly. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, yeah, like you have anything better to do," Chad paused to reach over and hoist her hands higher, as they were sagging. Violet rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.

"Alright, what?"

"It's nothing I'm just, like, REALLY over this whole depressed Violet thing," Chad said, never looking up from his creation. Violet stared at him blankly. "That's all," he finished.

"Oh, like you're a day at the beach, Chad…" Violet scoffed.

"At least I'm not running around feeling sorry for myself. I'm keeping busy. I'm…"

"Knitting?" Violet said flatly. "You have eternity to master any hobby that you could ever imagine…and you're knitting."

"Well…Horseback riding is kind of out of the question, right?" Chad scoffed. "Unless you can fit a horse through the front door." Chad sat his knitting down, Violet reciprocated with her yarn. "Plus…I'm kind of stuck using anything left behind. It was knitting or a box of old puppets I found in the attic. This is definitely less creepy." Chad leaned back, eyes Violet smugly.

"What are you looking at," Violet quipped.

"Oh, nothing. Just comparing you to that little dish the new owners have watching their precious babies. Seeing how you stack up." Violet felt her stomach do a flip. She sat up straight and flattened out her hair.

"And? How do I compare." Violet felt her cheeks flush as the thought of someone picking apart her features. Especially Chad. He wasn't really known for his tact or sweetness.

"Well. You're both cute. And you've got that sad little girl thing going on, your man likes that he can pretend you're as fucked up as he is. So that's a plus. But…" his words trailed.

"What?" Violet pressed. She bit her thumbnail. Nervous habit.

"She's going to give you a run for your money if you don't do something about it," Chad began carefully. "Not that I completely condone any forgiveness. I hate the little bastard. And it's been so fun to watch him sulk and cry around here. Even that Hayden is sniffing around him like a cat in heat to try to shut him up. I think she might have finally succeeded," Chad spoke wryly. Once again, he was never one to protect anyone's feelings. However, the thought of Tate and Hayden together made Violet's head spin. She knew and had seen Hayden's persistence.

"So…he's calmer now?" Violet asked. She meant to ask, is he getting over me? Is he really fucking Hayden? Has he physically shown himself to Sawyer?

"Calm before the storm, right? Don't worry. I'll make sure something sets him off again. Sometimes I slip pictures of you from your family's old photo album in the attic down to his little dwelling space in that damp, old basement. Just to get him all riled up again. It's a hobby, actually."

"At least it's better than knitting…" Violet said somberly. Chad ignored her.

"But…he's been watching her. A lot, actually. Since the day she first came in."

"So what." Violet turned herself away from him, as if to reject his words. "Tate watches a lot of people."

"Oh honey, no, no, no," Chad smiled halfheartedly. "He's only ever watched one other girl the way he watches her… And that's you." The words hit Violet in the chest, and she felt her eyes brim with tears. "Believe me. He creeps around and watches all of us, but he's hateful. Resentful. A sulky, moody, little boy. But her…he's got a softness in his eyes for her. Like he did with you."

"Well, it's not like I can do anything about it. I can't forgive him. It's not like you're not forgiving Patrick," Violet said sternly. Chad shrugged.

"I'm not still in love with Patrick."

And Violet knew then and there that she had a decision to make that she wasn't ready for, but nonetheless she was running out of time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

He couldn't really classify what color her eyes were, and that drove him crazy. Sometimes they were this clear blue. Glacier water. Other times he had seen them as pure ice. Slate grey. Yesterday they were green…ish. Greenish blue? What was so damn confusing about her big eyes that made it impossible for him pick a color?

Violet's eyes were hazel. There. Simple. But this new girl, this Sawyer. He didn't really get one thing about her. In watching Violet when she first moved in, he could read her so well. She was like him in a lot of ways. Dark. Secretive. Deep. Lots of the same interests. And as he watched Sawyer dance in the living room to some god-awful children's T.V. show with the 3-year-old, he definitely realized that he didn't get it. That people his age could seem happy on the outside. Functioning, normal teenagers. Who knew? But what he really didn't get was why she would cry in her sleep every single night she had been there so far. Although it hadn't been very long, he had watched her sleep every night since she got there. And every night at some point she would break into a weeping sob in the middle of her dreams. What could she have going on in her that was causing her so much to cry about?

It wasn't just the cry that got Tate. It was the nature of the cry. It sounded painful. Sorrowful. Erupting from her chest in heaves. And every night it woke her up. She would sit up quickly, dry her tears, and try to fall back to sleep as she clutched her locket in her hand at her chest. And every time, Tate kinda wished that he could just hold her. Reach out and stroke her cheek. Make her feel better.

_I really do have mommy issues._

Sawyer puzzled Tate. But the last thing he could even imagine is making himself visible to her. Getting to know another girl. Spending time with her. Letting her win at Scrabble.

Asking her why she cries at night. Why she doesn't put anything in her tea, no sugar, no honey. Why does she count her steps on the stairs every time she uses them? Why hasn't she ever called home or received any calls since she has been here? Does she have parents? Were they as fucked up as his? What did she want to be when she grew up-

No. He couldn't do that again. Even if he desperately wanted to know, he knew there was a great chance that he would find some way to poison her with his darkness. The way he claimed Violet when she found out he was dead. She took those pills to cope with things that she couldn't possibly understand.

_After all that I've done…I deserve to have to spend eternity alone._

He watched her brush her hair, staring hauntingly into her vanity mirror. She jumped at every creak and groan in the house at night, as she should. There was a loud thump from the attic that made her scurry like a terrified chipmunk. He thought it was adorable. Little did she know it was only Beau, bored upstairs, wanting someone to play with.

The babies were fast asleep and Sawyer was preparing for bed. After she regained her composure from the noises, she disrobed, revealing her sun kissed shoulders in her tank top and lacy underwear. Her skin looked so smooth, it took everything out of him not to reach out and touch her. Her caramel waves fell from her ponytail as she let her hair down, her big eyes picking herself apart in the mirror. She was tiny. Well proportioned, but tiny boned. He took note that he could probably scoop her up off her feet without really even having to try. She turned to her side in the mirror, pinching a piece of nonexistent fat, this made him laugh to himself. Girls, no matter how big or small, were all just as equally critical of themselves for no reason. She turned around quickly, coming almost face to face with Tate. He held his breath.

"Hello?" she asked, those wide eyes full of color shining.

_Blue. Definitely blue._

"Is someone there?" she asked in Tate's direction. She stared right through him. He felt his heart, if it was still beating, rattle around in his chest. She made him nervous. He was getting too close. He was watching her too much. She was going to sense him one day. Maybe even see him against his will. He had read that some people could do that. Who knows if it actually happened like that? But all Tate knew was that she was looking straight at him as if she could see him, but he wasn't really there. She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms and hurried over to her bed, a bed that was in the same spot it had been in his room, when this house had been his, and he was alive. She turned off the lamp by her bed and started to drift off. Tate sat in the empty chair by her bed.

He was only going to watch her for a bit tonight. Just to remember what it felt like to sleep. Just to be there in case there was a noise. Just to make sure that she got back to sleep soundly after she inevitably wakes up crying.

_Just to be here._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

As Violet lay in bed, she looked at the clock.

_11:59 pm._

One minute until midnight. That meant that today was the first day that Tate never slipped a note under her door. When the clock turned to confirm that it was a full day with no real contact from him, a deep sob escaped her lips and she began to weep. Although at this point she wasn't sure if she was crying because she was sad that he really felt gone… or happy because she finally felt free.


	4. Somebody That I Used to Know

**Chapter 4**

Somebody I Used to Know**  
><strong>

_A/N: Got a review that encouraged me to update my story information. Again, I am not entirely certain what my pairing is going to be and until I continue writing and figuring it all out, I can't promise that it's going to be Tate/Sawyer or Tate/Violet, or Tate alone for all eternity (like he probably deserves on some level.) So I updated my story description accordingly, and if you cannot possibly read a story that may or may not end favorably for your pairing, I'm sorry. It IS safe to say that this story will have a hefty dosage of both pairings. I am entirely grateful for any and all feedback. I, myself, don't necessarily enjoy reading things when I know the outcome, but I am aware works differently than that._

_I will hint that as of now I am going in a certain direction, and that although Tate is drawn to Sawyer's lightness, he will always be drawn to the darkness ;) And if the house doesn't claim Sawyer, it is Violet that will still be trapped with him there forever._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sawyer Greene<em>**

Sawyer never felt alone in the house. True, she wasn't alone, with baby Phebe and Caden, but it was a different kind of alone that she never felt. She always felt eyes on her, no matter when she was. The house was uneasy…in a state of unrest. It creaked and groaned with pain at all hours of the day and night, and Sawyer couldn't get a full night's sleep no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes became tired. A dull, lifeless blue.

Moira had told her stories of the house, with the promise that she wouldn't be afraid. It was becoming harder and harder to 'not believe in ghost stories' when she could see things out of the corner of her eyes. She had seen things move, heard things thump, and couldn't find the source of a baby's cry even when Phebe was sound asleep.

"Some things just can't be explained with simple terms, Miss Greene," Moira had said cryptically as she dusted the mantle. "After all of the horrible things that have happened within these walls…the energy stays. It gets trapped here. And things aren't always what they seem."

Sawyer scooted the eggs around her plate and tried to read As I Lay Dying for the millionth time; one of her favorites. She had always been a bit on the morbid side. While kids her age growing up would rip open the newspaper to read the comics, she always found herself starting at the Obituaries. Of course, she would end with the comics, just to end on a light note. But her fascination with death had always been with her, even before her mother died of a drug overdose when she was eight.

_My mother is a fish_.

Young Vardman had said, coping with the death of his mother the only way a small child knew how. To compare her to a dead fish. One that was dead after it was caught, killed, cooked and eaten. Sawyer instinctively toyed with her locket, as she always did when she was concentrating. It was a gift from her mother when she was still her mother. Before the drugs took over.

_Before she was a fish._

The abrupt ringing of the telephone shook her out of her thoughts. She picked up the house phone, saying hello.

"How are my babies?" a familiar voice rang. Rebecca was due home in the next couple days, and checked in a couple times a day since she had left. Sawyer cleared her throat. She could hear Phebe whimpering from upstairs. The corded left her paralyzed to the wall. She glanced around helplessly as she tried to keep the conversation short.

"They're great," Sawyer said quickly.

"Oh, good to hear. New York has been…well…New York, I guess. Busy and rude. But it's been great shooting out here." Much to her delight, Rebecca landed a supporting role in come cheesy Lifetime movie, and was wrapping up shooting any day now. Sawyer often wondered what it was like to be away from your children for so long, especially with them being at such a young age. She decided that some parents just have different morals; God knew hers did. "Anyways, I don't want to keep you too long, but I just wanted to let you know that in a week Richard will be home, and I would like to have a huge party for him. Just a little congrats for wrapping up his new movie. I hear it already has Oscar buzz…"

"That's good," Sawyer could hear Phebe wailing from upstairs. She hoped that Moira would take it upon herself to quiet her, but so far there seemed to be no such luck.

_Who in this day and age would have a corded phone in their home?_

As Rebecca rambled on, Sawyer remembered that Richard had been remodeling to bring the house to a more 'authentic' state, thus the absence of a cordless phone. Phebe's crying persisted, and Sawyer could feel herself becoming increasingly anxious to get to her. The way this house was left a feeling of fear in Sawyer when the children were left alone too long. Caden had wandered into the basement only days ago when something terrified him so badly that it took three hours of calming with ice cream and kiddie movies before he finally drifted off to sleep. Sawyer knew in her stomach that she wasn't alone in this house. Never alone.

"So I would like you and Moira to make sure that the house is in perfect condition for decorating when I get back. I plan on inviting some pretty prestigious people," Rebecca concluded.

"Will do, but I really need to run, Rebecca. Phebe is crying," Sawyer said, finally getting a break in Rebecca's one-sided conversation. Rebecca hurried off the phone and Sawyer hung up quickly, running to the stairs. She felt a dark feeling in her chest that something was wrong. She scrambled up the stairs as fast as she could, almost tripping on her way up. Once she made it to the door to Phebe's nursery, she could hear noises as Phebe's cries subsided to gentle whimpers. She could hear shushing and comforting, even though Moira was out hanging the sheets on the lines in the back yard.

_I am not alone._

Sawyer's heart practically beat through her chest as she braced herself, slowly pushing the door open. Phebe wasn't in her crib. Instead, a young man with tussled blonde hair and the darkest eyes she had ever seen was holding her, bouncing her up and down lightly. Phebe stopped crying all together, her tears replaced by a broad smile. The young man looked to Sawyer in a panic, exchanging glances between Phebe and Sawyer before apologizing profusely.

"Who are you?" Sawyer asked angrily, although fear was still bounding through her veins. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, I just…I heard her crying I wanted to help…" he said nervously. Sawyer stormed towards him, ripping Phebe out of his arms and clutching the baby to her chest. Startled by the force, Phebe began to cry again.

"Who are you?" Sawyer asked again, yelling this time over Phebe's cries.

"I-I'm Tate…Mrs. Grant hired me. For yard work," he stammered.

"How did you get into this house?" Sawyer asked, relieved that he knew Rebecca's name. It helped add the slightest credibility to his story.

"The maid, Moira. She let me in," he said. Sawyer eyed him from the other side of the room as she placed a pacifier in Phebe's mouth, causing the whole room to calm.

"Either way, you are aware that this is HIGHLY inappropriate, don't you?" Sawyer asked. She felt angry. Whether he wanted to help or not, her heart rate couldn't stop racing. She looked at him carefully. He bowed his head down looking at his feel awkwardly. He had a little boy quality about him that made it hard for her to stay mad while she watched him. He put his hands in his pockets of his jeans, hiding in his over-sized sweater.

"I know, I-I'm sorry," Tate said to his shoes. Sawyer felt herself warm, and she began to take pity on him. He looked so harmless.

"Well, I need to feed her, so we should go downstairs," Sawyer suggested, still on her guard. He nodded and they left the nursery.

Sawyer couldn't shake the feeling that this boy was all too familiar to her. Like she had seen him before, or met him long ago. Either way, there was something very familiar about his eyes. She felt like she had seen them in a dream. One she didn't remember but when triggered, it set of the strangest Déjà vu.

Sawyer put Phebe in the highchair, placing some cheerios on the tray. She devoured them happily. She glanced at Tate who sat nicely at the bar, hands clasped in front of him. She eyed him skeptically as he looked around nervously.

"Do you want anything?" Sawyer asked coldly. He shook his head. "Should you be starting your yard work?"

"I don't start til eleven o'clock. I just came early to meet with Rebecca," he said quietly.

"She's not in town. Won't be for a few days. So I will tell her you stopped by," Sawyer suggested, eyeing the door. Tate stood. He got the hint.

"Well, I was already planning on working. So I guess I'll just get started. I can work out the details with her later, I guess." Sawyer shifted her weight awkwardly before nodding.

"I suppose if you were supposed to start today, you should do that," Sawyer agreed. And with that, Tate went outside and got to work. Sawyer watched him from the window as he went to the garage and started getting the necessary gardening supplies. She stroked her locket and wondered where on earth she could have seen him before.

_Definitely not at school._

Moira entered the room with her cleaning supplies in hand, putting them in the pantry.

"Moira, had you ever met that boy before?" Sawyer asked, never taking her eyes off of him through the window. Moira joined her and gulped. It took a moment before she responded.

"Yes. A time or two," she said feebly. Sawyer nodded.

"Moira?" she asked again.

"Yes, Miss?" Sawyer turned to her, her icy gaze staring straight into her.

"You are never to let anyone into this house without consulting me, do you understand?" Sawyer said sternly. Moira nodded as Sawyer left the kitchen in a flurry. Moira looked back out the window and shook her head. Tate was gearing up the mower in the front yard. It must have been 100 degrees out and he never removed his sweater.

"Yes, Miss." 

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

He felt like an idiot. How had he let himself get seen? He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to show himself to her. And what a wonderful first impression; she probably thought he was going to murder the kid. He let out a big sigh as pushed the lawn mower back to the garage. It was the stupidest move he could have made.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder, _what if Violet saw?_

He knew deep down in his heart that she would watch him, at least sometimes. He knew he had smelled her the other day. He knew she missed him in one way or another. God knew he missed her. But the loneliness he felt in Murder House was becoming increasingly heavy, nagging at his brain that he needed some form of contact. Hayden hardly counted. Of course Ben wouldn't talk to him. Many of the others wouldn't talk to him either. He wasn't well liked in the house anymore, not since all the trouble he constantly stirred up became ever so apparent. He had Beau; that was constant. But you can only pass a ball back and forth so many times before you crave real conversation.

"How are you not dying in this heat?" her voice asked. Tate turned to see Sawyer, more composed than earlier, with a glass of ice water. He eyed it while she simply stared back. Finally, her eyes trailed down to the water, reminding her why she was out there in the first place. "Oh, right. This is for you," she offered coolly. He smirked and took the water appreciatively.

"Thanks," he said before taking a large drink. "This is a good look for you," he lightly teased. Sawyer was fresh out of the shower, her hair still soaked at just in a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. He wasn't lying. She looked beautiful no matter what she did. It was as if it was effortless for her.

"Yeah, yeah," she smiled, ever so slightly. She couldn't help but feel herself blush at the compliment. "Are you done here?" she asked. There was a hopefulness in her eyes, at least that's what he hoped for, himself.

"Well, just with the mowing. I have more to do. Gonna take a couple days to clear out all of this overgrowth." She passed her weight back and forth from foot to foot, something he noticed her doing whenever she seemed nervous or agitated.

"Do you- Do you maybe want to come inside? I can make lunch," she offered. He was surprised at her becoming a lot more hospitable since earlier that morning. However, he did startle her with just showing up in the house uninvited, after all.

Tate felt off. Like he was on his best behavior. He was using his manners. Curbing his need to express who he really was to her. Trying to keep from finding some dark way to relate to her.

_Why do you cry at night?_

He remembered his first meeting with Violet.

_And if you're trying to kill yourself, you might try shutting the door._

Comparing scars. Scaring coke whores. Holding one another when the world seemed so dark and cruel. That was who Tate was. That was who he was with Violet. She got that. She understood. How would Sawyer ever understand him? How would he ever be able to talk to her about the things he talked to Violet about? Would she run? Would she understand? And in all honesty, did any of this even matter at all? He shouldn't be here.

_I shouldn't be here_.

Then, she smiled. A real one. It was so real. So light. She looked then more radiant than he had ever seen her look before. He had never really seen her smile until this very moment. She put the sun to shame. He felt hypnotized by her and couldn't manage to utter anything other than,

"Sure. Lunch sounds great."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Violet Harmon<em>**

Violet sat like a broken rag doll in a chair in the living room. Her hand dangled lifelessly over the arm of the chair, a lit cigarette burning into the air. She brought the cigarette lazily to her lips and inhaled, her eyes never leaving his blonde-framed face. He couldn't see her. Then again, at this point, no one could. Tate and Sawyer sat on the couch only feet away, talking politely about dumb shit like the weather.

_Please._

He was never going to tell her who he was. What he did. She just sat there smiling at him, batting those gorgeous eye lashes, and he just let her. Violet wasn't sure where exactly the anger came from. She wanted to assume that it was from a protection of Sawyer; the hopes that this house and Tate wouldn't claim anymore souls. But deep down, Violet knew that wasn't true. She knew that she was jealous, and it boiled deep down under her skin.

"You didn't go to my school," Sawyer said coyly. "I would have seen you."

_He did. It was 1994. He's a liar._

"I went to a private school."

_Liar. Liar, liar, liar, liar._

"Oh, that's interesting."

_No, it's really not._

"Not really. School is a sad, grueling segue into modern society. It's a joke. A filthy joke," Tate said darkly. Sawyer stared wide-eyed at him, then down at her lunch.

"Not really the best experiences?" she asked.

"No. Not really."

Violet watched from her chair, occasionally puffing on her cigarette. She wondered if she had seemed this naïve to Tate when they had met. She was sure this Sawyer must have had some freaky skeletons in her closet, but so far she seemed like a run-of-the-mill, over-protected little teenage daddy's girl. What would Tate possibly need in that? How would a girl like that understand him? How would a girl like that accept his flaws? Love him knowing all that he had done? The comment about his school was just a teaser; if this girl had half a brain, she would run.

"Did you always live here?"

_He's boring when he tries to do small talk. He's not small enough for small talk._

"Mmmhmm, on the most part," Sawyer said with an air of indifference. "I mean, ever since my mom died-"

"How'd she die?" Tate interrupted darkly, his eyes suddenly sparkling with interest. Sawyer furrowed her brow, taken aback. When she told people her mother died, she often felt like the other person immediately got uncomfortable, apologized for her loss, and then hurried out stage left. She was bewildered by his interest.

"Uhm…" she stammered, "Drugs."

"Cool," Tate said aloud.

_Good one._

"Yeah, it's not really cool," Sawyer shook her head, baffled by his reaction. "No, I found her body, Tate. It's not really cool. I was placed in foster care for the last eight years, so, it's not cool."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I lost my mom too, is all."

_Liar._

"Oh. How?" Sawyer dared ask. If he could be so brazen, she wouldn't hold back.

"I lost her by choice. She was a cock-sucker," he said all too familiarly. "She was the reason my dad left. She was the reason a lot of shit had happened to me the way it has."

"Oh," Sawyer said simply.

"If I were you, I'd just stop hurting over it and start hating her," Tate suggested. Sawyer was once again taken aback by how candidly he spoke of such things.

"Excuse me?"

"She left you alone in this shitty, shitty world, Sawyer. Alone to be fed to the wolves in the foster care system. She left you to fend off molesters and people who looked at you like a government paycheck. She left you."

"My mother was sick," Sawyer said with tears beginning to form in her eyes.

"Your mother had a hobby that she loved more than you. And it took her away from you. Get pissed, Sawyer."

"Get out," Sawyer said simply. "That's enough for today. You can finish your yard work tomorrow," Sawyer said, standing. "I'm sure you can find the door," she finished, before walking out of the room and up to her room.

Violet smirked at she saw Tate drop his head into his hands.

_You can only be a good boy for so long. For you? Less than twenty minutes._

He began lightly hitting himself in the head, embarrassed and annoyed with himself for hurting her. That wasn't his plan. He just looked at things more logically than others. And now he had no idea if she would even talk to him again. This day couldn't have gone worse if he had tried.

Violet stood, putting out her cigarette on the floor, still invisible. She was all too amused watching his train wreck of a conversation, just hoping that he had scared Sawyer off from him for good. She walked over to him and placed her hand on his cheek, comfortingly. It was as if he could feel her. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He could smell the cigarette smoke lingering. He knew she was there.

And as soon as she had come, she was already gone. 

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

She wasn't sure what it was about him, but regardless of his tactfulness, she was drawn to him. She was deeply connected to him and she had no real idea why that was. She understood what he had been saying to her earlier, no matter how warped it may have seemed at the time. Truth be known, she still had a lot of dealing to do when it came to losing her mother. Finding her body. Lifeless. Bloody. She had said drugs killed her mother. And that wasn't a lie. Her mother had a problem with drugs. But her bigger problem was not paying her dealer. Saying she lost her to drugs just seemed less complicated than murder.

_More complicated than cancer. Less complicated than murder._

Sawyer dreamed about him that night, a few lovely moments with him. Moments where she felt safe with him, like he knew her and understood her and she knew him and understood him. He reached out for her, she felt the electricity spark when he touched her hand, her cheek. Could smell his breath on her lips.

Then her dream morphed into what it did every night. There was her mother, lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood.

"Help…Me…" she rattled, blood in her throat.

And like always, Sawyer shot up in bed, tears flowing down her cheeks. And through the tears she thought she saw him, Tate, standing at the end of her bed watching her. But when she wiped away the tears from her eyes, she was simply staring into the darkness of her own, empty room.


	5. Never Think

**Chapter 5**

Never Think

_A/N – Why, hello everyone. My, my, my. Reading through my peer's reviews on this site, I just have to say there is a lot of harshness going around. This is just a little note to say: I like Tate/OC stories, I like Tate/Violet stories…but above all else, I like American Horror Story, and I care more about a story being well written than who the pair is. The challenges are as such: For Tate/OC stories, you have to create an interesting character that your audience ultimately grows to care about. For Tate/Violet stories, you have to find something to write about that isn't overdone and cliché. Neither of those tasks are easy. One of the most amazing parts about being a writer is the freedom it entails. We shouldn't forget that or feel bound to anything. It stifles us as writers._

_Enjoy._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ben Harmon<strong>_

Ben didn't make it a point to spend too much time with Moira. After all of the times she had thrown himself at him, he found it hard to even be around her. When he saw her in her older form, he cringed at the idea of her straddling him as she had in the past, forcing herself upon him. But when she was in her younger form, he couldn't concentrate on anything at all. Married, in love, whatever the case, Ben Harmon was still a man, and young Moira was still a seductress.

The elder Moira entered the kitchen and began to prepare the tea. It wasn't necessary; she wasn't his maid any longer, but the gesture was still appreciated. She figured she owed it to him on one level or another, after all the internal strife she had caused him in his living days. It had just been too easy for her.

"Thank you, Moira," Ben said. They really hadn't had a chance to talk about things the way that Moira and Vivien had talked about things. Then again, they never really had the chance.

"You're welcome, Mr. Harmon," she said politely. It was odd for Ben to get to know this Moira; so reserved and polite. It made him wonder for a moment which one was the real Moira?

"How are you doing today?" Ben asked. Moira smirked smugly.

"Let's just cut to the chase, Mr. Harmon. We don't need to do the small talk. You need something," she mused. Ben blinked, taken aback by her brashness. When he opened his eyes, she was young Moira. "Would it make you feel better if I look like this?" she teased. Ben shook his head.

"That's not necessary," he gulped. Ben was certain that this was the real Moira on the inside. A siren that loved to lure men to their deaths. He had a hunch that her vendetta against him was personal. But to respect his comfort, Moira returned to her elderly self, the self that had grown wise as time had passed.

Sawyer entered the kitchen, never looking up from her book as she instinctively opened the fidge, pulled out a bottle for Phebe and proceeded to heat it in a pot of warm water over the stove. Ben froze, suddenly feeling exposed.

"Don't be ridiculous," Moira said, gently placing a hand on his arm comfortingly, "She can't see us right now, and you know that." It still took so much getting used to, being dead. Ben supposed it would take a lot longer than a few months. It was strange to really be able to be anywhere in the house, roam it as if it were still his own, all the while life outside of the home went on without the Harmons. "She's pretty," Moira said what Ben was thinking, watching Sawyer lean against the counter, never taking her eyes off of her book. Ben nodded. "If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Harmon, that little psychopath has been averting his attentions onto her instead of Violet."

"Knowing what he is capable of," Ben said somberly, flooded with so many memories and so much animosity at the same time, "I don't think that makes me feel better at all. She's so young."

"We all were," Moira poised.

"Moira," Ben began carefully, never taking his eyes from Sawyer, "I overheard you telling Vivien once…there's a way out of here? A way to cross over?" Moira sighed sadly. She stared out the kitchen window at the gazebo, instantly reminded that there may never be a chance of her being able to leave Murder House thanks to that dreadful thing; the gazebo that sealed her tomb. The one Ben put over hers and Hayden's bodies. A twinge of resentment overcame her, but then subsided. They had all acted less than honorable at one point or another. Perhaps that was part of the energy in the house that kept them all trapped there.

"Gwendolyn Langdon."

"As in…Constance's relation?" Ben asked, knowing full well that the Langdon vermin seemed to run rampant within this home.

"Yes. She was Tate's twin sister. Lovely girl. The two were inseparable, I remember that," and for a moment, Moira paused, as if she really was trying to remember. "She ran away, when her mother moved Lawrence in. Nice enough girl, quite emotional. Couldn't handle too much. When Tate died, she returned home but Constance had moved by then." Moira said all of her story so indifferently for the context it contained. As if she was all too familiar with sad stories; she was numb to it. The sad story seemed riddled with holes; but Ben couldn't expect Moira to know all of it. "She killed herself in the basement," Moira finished flatly.

"But how did she cross over? I thought we were all bound here?" Ben asked.

"I don't know for certain. Tate never knew she was here. He was still in the denial period of mourning his own death, and she somehow stayed hidden from him. She wasn't here long," Moira began. There had to be a way to explain how she got out of the house. It was times like this Ben wished he had a means for communicating with the outside world, but so close to his own death seemed too risky. He could have really used that Craigslist psychic about now. "All I can say is that if Tate is the darkness, Gwenie was the lightness. There was no magical spell or voodoo that helped her cross over. She was just the first one of us that really accepted that she was gone. For some reason the energy of the house let her go…If I knew exactly how, I would have crossed over myself," Moira stared into nothingness hauntingly. "I would give anything to be released from this house."

"…But…The body?" Ben asked, completely baffled by Moira's tale. "Didn't they find her body?"

"She asked to be buried in the back yard. She and I did it together," said Moira. "I think her attending her own funeral and saying goodbye really helped her heal."

"Maybe that's the key," Ben mused.

"Perhaps. The day she saw Tate was the day she crossed over. I think she wanted to be away from him. He never even knew she was here."

Ben thought hard about the things he had just heard, picking apart the things that he could help control. The acceptance of being dead, the self-attending funeral; somewhere in all of that information was the answer to ridding the house of Tate for good, he just didn't know where.

"I will say, long ago I read a book on the occult. Crossing over is known to be hindered when a spirit is overcome with grief or guilt, they may be afraid, or clinging to someone who is here. If the person that Tate is clinging to is young Violet," Moira paused, not wanting to continue. She didn't have to. Ben knew what she was going to say.

"He won't cross over until she does."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Green<strong>_

The ding-dong of the doorbell interrupted Sawyer from her sentence in her book and startled her at the same time. She didn't like answering doors, especially when she didn't know who it was. All of the turmoil from her past caused Sawyer to be ever so cautious with her safety; an anxiety filled her chest every time her phone rang. She walked over to the door quietly, in case she decided that she wasn't going to answer it, and peeked through the hole. She saw two familiar eyes and messy blonde hair peeking over a bouquet of wildflowers. She sighed and tried not to smile, still sore about their exchange of words the day before. Against her better judgment, she opened the door slightly and peered out.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly, her blue eyes icily staring at him.

"Sorry?" he tried, sheepishly. She opened the door more and stepped into the doorway, amused.

"Peace offering?" she asked, her brow arched and one hand on her hip.

"I come in peace," Tate responded with an awkward smile. She felt a small smile creep across her own lips as well.

"And what makes you think I'm going to forgive you?" she asked coyly. Tate thought for a moment, his eyes glancing around nervously.

"Well, the flowers, for one-"

"From the garden. Smooth."

"Plus I'm really good looking. You can't stay mad at this face-" he attempted.

"I just really want to punch it, though," Sawyer joked lightly.

"I have that effect on people sometimes," Tate joked back, with much truth behind it. The sat silently for a moment before she nodded him in. He happily followed her in.

The house was eerily quiet, no groaning flood boards or squeaking doors; the babies were down for their morning nap, and Tate had some time before the yard work began. It gave them just enough time to try to make awkward small talk all over again.

_Maybe this time I can get through it without completely fucking it up._

Tate wanted her to like him. He wanted her to think he was a good guy; Lord knows he had already been the bad boy for long enough. And there was something about her indescribable eyes: they made him want to be seen as something good. To be seen for who he wanted to be, maybe not the monster he had been.

In Tate's heart and mind, he didn't blame Violet for never forgiving him. Rape. Murder. These weren't light crimes. And he just wanted to forget, like he had about the massacre. Forget that any of the hurt he had caused had ever happened. He wanted everyone to forget. He wanted to be better. This could be his redemption.

Sawyer put the flowers in water and sat on the couch, Tate followed soon after.

"I'm sorry," he began. She smiled. He loved the way she smiled.

"You mentioned that…with the flowers and all…" she teased.

"I just need you to know…I've done some not so great things," he said, his eyes growing dark. Honesty wasn't easy. Well…even partial honest in this case, wasn't going to be easy. "I've hurt people before." Her eyes widened. The phrase resonated with her, echoed in her mind as she wondered what exactly that could really mean.

"We all have." She said it quickly, hoping he took this as an out, to make what he was going to say not so bad. She wanted to like him. He seemed broken. Dark. Misunderstood. Hell, what did she know? She didn't even know him. But the idea of him ruining whatever was happening with spilling his guts about what he had done in the past was making her nervous.

"No," he started, "Not like me. And I can't always control what I say, I have no filter. I don't know exactly what it is but…I like you," he said shyly. She smiled, blushing slightly. "But in all honesty, Sawyer, I'm not a really good guy. One day I think I can tell you everything. But for now, you just need to know that I am not a perfect person and I will probably fuck up, even just talking to you like I did yesterday." She wasn't sure what to say, she wasn't even sure what he was saying. He seemed concerned, shaky. Upset.

"You made it right, Tate. You were just saying what you felt. And I got upset," she began, remembering how it all went down the day before. "I wasn't completely honest with you. My mom didn't die specifically of drugs. She was murdered by her dealer." It was the first time she really spit it out so emotionlessly. It felt better, just to say it without the lie, without the secret. "And I did find her."

"That must have been traumatizing."

"It was. I just want to forget it. Forget about her. Maybe I should get mad," she sighed. Tate took in her words, realizing that her ability to feel something other than anger about something, her inability to make herself a victim in the situation, is what set her apart from himself. From Violet.

"Anger numbs it. But feeling it will ultimately destroy it. Then heal it." He laughed, quite heartily. Sawyer laughed too, out of confusion due to the fact that she had no idea what he was laughing at. "I think I have a lot to learn from you."

"I have a lot to teach, so I guess that's good." Their eyes met for a long, intense moment as they mused over the direction of their conversation, covering so much and so little in such a short period of time. He reached his hand towards her face, hesitantly, brushing her golden hair from her cheek, feeling cliché the whole time he was doing it. She smiled broadly.

Phebe's cries interrupted them. Tate stood, his cue to go. The lawn wasn't going to weed itself.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Tate Langdon<em>**

It was nightfall, and the sky was enveloping from a blue to pink to purple, and Tate stared out the window in the study. Tate sat, his leg bouncing from nervousness and anticipation as he waited. Ben still hadn't spoken to him, but he had received the letter in the basement. The letter that said he wanted to talk to him. And deep in his gut, Tate couldn't help but feel as though this was some kind of a set-up. After all that had happened, after all he had done, the last person he expected to reach out to him was Ben Harmon.

_If you really mean what you say  
>You'll meet me in my office at 6:00 p.m.<br>Ben_

He watched at the hands on the clock ticked along. 6:11 p.m. Ben was late. His uneasiness grew as he waited. And waited.

Then suddenly, Ben was standing, there his eyes watching Tate hesitantly. Tate squirmed under his intense stare. The tension in the room was thick, and it took everything out of Tate not to just disappear. He gulped, unintentionally, trying not to let his nervousness show, but it was flowing off of him in waves.

"What keeps you here, Tate?" Ben asked, straight to the point. "Is it my daughter?" Tate felt like he had walked right into a trap.

"I haven't even seen Violet, Mr. Harmon, you know that," Tate answered.

"You do realize all the things you've done, at this point, right Tate? You're not grieving? You're not still in denial?" Ben was mentally going over a checklist. He found the best way to manipulate Tate was through his emotions, to get him riled up. Tate tried to keep himself composed.

"What is this about?"

"You have nothing left here, Tate. Don't you think it's time to go? To cross-over?"

Tate jumped up a fury, slamming Ben hard against this wall, his forearm crushing into his throat.

"I know what you're trying to do," Tate seethed through clenched teeth. His eyes were on fire as he pushed his forearm down harder, causing Ben to choke out gasps of air. "You think you're the only one who's ever come in here and told me to go to the light? It doesn't work like that." Ben stared back at him helplessly, immobilized. If Ben wasn't already dead, Tate could have easily killed him all over again. The rage that pumped through him made it impossible to stop himself. That's always how it was for him. Always at war with himself.

Tate finally let go of him and Ben toppled down towards the floor, holding his crushed trachea. Tate stood over him, still fuming, his fists clenched as Ben continued to gasp for air. Tate leaned down, cocked his head to the side and let a sinister smile spread across his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Horman. Guess we'll just have to find a way to get along, shall we?"

Ben finally felt his lungs expand with air. He coughed until he felt like he could breathe again, his back heaving heavily.

"Gwe-Gwendolyn," he managed to say. Tate stiffened at the mention of her name.

"What did you say?" he asked angrily. Ben tried to get out a full sentence, but it wasn't quick enough for Tate. He rushed back over to him and grabbed him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up. "I can't hear you! What are you saying her name for!" his voice bellowed to the point of raspiness. His face was red from all of the struggling.

"She-she's the one. She's the one that crossed over in this house," Ben finally exclaimed. Tate's tired eyes went blank. Glossed over. A cry suddenly erupted from his chest, knocking him to his knees. Ben watched as Tate pulled at his own hair and then held his stomach, as if the agonizing mention of her name was killing him all over again.

Ben stood over him, his eyes burning into him. He hoped that it was.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

Sawyer lay in bed, watching the car headlights passing by paint golden stripes across her ceiling every time they passed. It wasn't late, but she felt tired, nonetheless. So many thoughts kept her awake anyway, even though all she wanted was rest. She thought about Tate, about his eyes and all that he kept hidden behind them. She felt a longing for him, to know more of him, to know what he meant earlier, about being a bad guy. But at the same time, she didn't want to know. It was easier to be blind to such things. Much easier.

She heard footsteps in the hallway, fast and deliberate. She sat up in her bed, instant fear washing over her. The door opened, and there he stood. Tate eyed her with a fire in his eyes that made him seem almost unrecognizable.

"Tate!" she breathed, started, relieved and upset all at the same time. "What are you doing here? Are you crazy?" she asked, jumping out of bed and charging him. "How did you-" her words were cut off instantaneously with his lips to her, furiously grabbing her and pulling her to him. She resisted, overrun with confusion and reluctance, but soon found herself falling into the kiss.

"I just needed that," he said almost inaudibly. She stood, dumbfounded, trying to find words. She closed her eyes and leaned in, and he met her lips with another kiss. This one was softer and sweeter, and she felt herself growing dizzy. They parted, and when she opened her eyes, she was devastated to see that he was gone.


	6. How to Disappear Completely

Chapter 6

How to Disappear Completely

_A/N: Hello everyone. It's been an extremely busy couple of days, I usually update Mondays and Thursdays, but this week held some special circumstances. To be honest, this was the hardest chapter I've had to write of the series so far. Thanks for the patience, the encouragement and the amazingly awesome reviews; you guys rock and make this so much more worth the time and the energy when I know people are enjoying it. HOPEFULLY it was worth the wait. Much love. Xoxo  
><em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

Sawyer's lips tingled. They hadn't stopped since the night before, and it was near impossible to focus on anything around her because of it.

Rebecca was due home any moment; Moira wandered the house, applying the finishing touches to the dusting and mopping, leaving the house immaculately clean. Sawyer, on the other hand, wandered in circles, simply recleaning things or moving the same vase from one place to another, never really accomplishing much of anything. The babies entertained themselves, as they usually did. It really had ended up being the easiest job she could ask for. However, the strange house kept her paranoid at all times. She had seen things that she couldn't really explain: things out of the corner of her eyes, things moving, disappearing, and voices. But last night took the cake.

_I just needed that._

She thought of him, thought of the kiss. Thought about how he had disappeared and she never even heard him leave. How did he get inside? How did he have such an effect on her? And where was he now? Tate Langdon had Sawyer's mind racing.

Moira set her hand on Sawyer's shoulder, comfortingly.

"Something on your mind?" she asked. Sawyer sighed; she had hoped it hadn't been that obvious. She wasn't sure if Moira was the person she felt like discussing such things with. However, her motherly nature made it feel easy to talk to her.

"It's just-" she began, but she didn't have to. Moira knew more than she would let on before.

"It's the boy, isn't it?" Moira sighed. She knew this was going to happen. If she had it her way, no teenage girls would ever occupy this home. No one ever, actually.

"How do you know these things?" Sawyer chuckled, in awe of Moira's wisdom. Moira smirked.

"I was young once too, you know," she teased. She paused, unsure whether or not to continue. At this point she really had nothing left to lose. "May I be candid, miss?" Moira asked. Sawyer nodded slowly, not sure what was going to come out of her mouth next. "It's just…he's not well, you see. He's a bit off."

"I've noticed," Sawyer scoffed.

_I just need you to know…I've done some not so great things…_

"I just wouldn't get too mixed up in him, is all," Moira suggested. Sawyer didn't care to continue the conversation, especially knowing that it was too late. She was mixed up in him. She was completely, one-hundred percent mixed up in him. It was as if he had infected her mind, he was all she could think about and she didn't see that ending anytime soon.

"I'M HOME!" a familiar voice rang. Rebecca entered the house in a flurry, hurrying to her children as fast as she could. She scooped little Caden into her arms quickly and covered his face with kisses. Moira went to shut the door only to realize that Rebecca wasn't alone. Men with flowers, decorations, food and other party necessities followed closely behind. Sawyer's eyes widened. With all of the things going on in her head, she had completely forgotten about the party.

"Welcome back," Moira greeted. Rebecca beamed, happy to be reunited with her children. She looked around the house and her smile grew.

"Wow, it looks amazing in here," she complimented. "Thank you for everything, ladies."

"When is the party?" Sawyer asked.

"Two days, and feel free to invite a friend! Or a boyfriend," she winked. Sawyer smirked.

"Maybe I'll invite Tate," she accidently said aloud. Moira shook her head and left the room, defeated. Rebecca ginned eagerly.

"Yeah? Who's that? Boy from school?" she nudged. "Give me the details, girlfriend." Although it was a dorky thing to say, Rebecca pulled it off adorably. Sawyer felt her cheeks blush.

"You know, the boy you hired for the yard-"

"I didn't hire anyone for the yard," Rebecca said, confused. "I thought you and Moira did all of that."

Sawyer's stomach dropped and she felt hot.

"But…but he said that you…what about Richard? Did he hire anyone?" Sawyer asked hopefully. Rebecca shook her head, too enchanted by her young children to really worry too much about the phantom yard worker. Sawyer, however, mulled over why he lied to her. More importantly…

_Who is he?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

It was the kiss heard round the world.

News travels fast in Murder House, and it didn't take long before Chad was not so gently breaking the news to a numb Violet about where Tate's lips had been. Forgotten.

_Forlorn._

There that word was again. She felt this twinge of jealousy that set her afire, but when it finally fizzled out, she felt nothing. Numb. Like the words that came from Chad's mouth destroyed her then set her free from feeling anything at all.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Chad said, perched against the door frame with a shit-eating grin smeared across his angular face. Violet was lounging on the sofa, sprawled across it uncaringly, a cigarette dangling from her full lips. She had Radiohead playing on her iPod; something she was listening to a lot these days. She eyed him carefully before exhaling a cloud of puffy smoke into his direction. She pulled one headphone off of her eye to hear what Chad had to say, the other stayed securely on her ear as Thom Yorke crooned sadly into her soul.

_I'm not here…this isn't happening._

"What do you want?" she asked flatly, looking away from him and back to the ceiling. "Coffee isn't until tomorrow." This was Violet now. Something inside of her had broken even more over the course of the last couple days; knowing that Tate was moving on. Maybe finding something that brought him joy.

_Bastard._

Violet didn't want him anymore. Especially now that he was seemingly done pining over her. But in the same regard, Violet didn't want anyone to have him. There was a selfish, bitter part of her now that took over and decided that Tate didn't need to be happy, especially since there was no hope for her finding companionship or love within the walls of Murder House. Why should he be able to just move on? Why? When she was stuck in this limbo for the rest of …well…from what she gathered, forever?

"Such a disgusting habit," Chad bitched, swatting away the smoke from his face. Violet rolled her eyes, and her body, off of the couch and crumpled down onto the floor, gazing up at Chad through her long, dirty blonde hair.

"Good thing I'm already dead," she purred, sucking on the end of the cigarette again. "I hear they're horrible for your health."

"When you're done channeling your inner Courtney Love, I have some information you may find interesting." Chad slid his hands into his pockets, edging into the room, ever so eager to stir up trouble. Violet was sure at this point that it was definitely his biggest hobby, other than reupholstering and swatches.

"Spill," Violet demanded. Music to Chad's ears.

"Your little psychopath duped another innocent little girl," Chad said, disapprovingly. Violet swallowed hard, took in a sharp breath.

"So?" she choked out. "I don't care," she laughed uneasily. "Good for him. He can destroy another soul. Must be racking up points for his burning in Hell credit or something…"

"Oh, don't be that way. You know it's killing you to think about it. Hayden said that he rushed into her room last night after a fight with your daddy and –"

"M-my dad?" Violet asked timidly, sounding more like herself than the cold, dark Violet she had become.

"Oh yeah, big confrontation about trying to get him to go to the light, or something," Chad shrugged off; it wasn't the more interesting point of his story to him. But it seemed to stop Violet in her tracks.

"Why would my dad even talk to him after- after everything that happened?" Violet wondered aloud.

"Duh," Chad laughed, shaking his head, "he's trying to get rid of the little bastard. And more power to him. I could go on a lot happier not seeing his demonic face wandering through these hallways." Violet let the words sink in, immediately torn between wanting him to be gone forever, and knowing that losing him forever, even just the thought of him, made her feel like she died all over again. There was no way to really explain all of the raw emotion floating inside of Violet Harmon at this point. Tate was her first love.

_My first real connection to another human being. _

Star crossed lovers. There was no way in this universe that she could forgive Tate and still be a sane, normal person who respected and loved her mother and father. Or even herself. But there was still a part of her that wanted to, of all things, be able to understand Tate. Understand his reasoning, his logic behind all of the horrible things he had done.

"So he went to her room…" Violet continued, her heart in her stomach, knowing the end of the story.

"They kissed. Pretty passionately, I hear," Chad smirked. Violet narrowed her eyes.

"Spare me the gory details, asshole," she growled. Chad smiled more. Their complex friendship allowed for such name calling and callousness.

"I'm just being honest with you." Should have been Chad's catchphrase. "I mean…how are you supposed to make an educated decision without knowing all of the facts?" Chad asked cryptically. Violet puzzled over this.

"Educated decision about what?" she asked innocently. She really had no idea what she was going to do next. Chad leaned in close and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"About whether or not you're going to scare little Miss Sawyer off and have Tate to yourself, or let him kill her and have to share him for eternity."

And at this point…Violet was sure that neither was a good idea.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

Tate thumped his head against the concrete wall in his sacred basement.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

How had he let himself do something so irresponsible? He knew what this meant; the next time he inevitably saw her, he'd have a lot of questions to answer. Questions he definitely didn't have the answers to, or the energy to lie about. He didn't want to lie anymore.

_No more bullshitting._

What if Violet saw? Did he even care anymore? And what was it about him and his emotions that always caused him to act on impulse. A sane person wouldn't have barged into her room, wouldn't have needed her contact right then and there. It was clear to Tate that it wasn't just Sawyer herself, but the way she looked at him. Like he was normal.

_Good._

She saw something in him that others didn't see.

And the thought made him uneasy and happy all at the same time. For one thing, he was torn between wanting to be seen as someone who was good, normal. Sane. But then there was the side of him, the dark side, that knew that maybe the dark side was the only side to Tate.

_Thump. Thump. THUMP._

"You're going to hurt yourself," Hayden's voice taunted.

"Go away." He didn't even have to look up to know it was her; he could sense her when she was near. It was a deep nagging in the pit of his stomach. Hayden was never a welcome site for him. She had a way of always striking the rawest nerve with him, and the idea of her even in the same room made him itch with irritation.

"That's no way to talk to a friend," she pouted. Tate finally looked at her; she never changed. Same red nose as if she had been crying, same long hair hanging lazily down. The fact that he had caved and attempted to find comfort in her only weeks ago made him feel a wave of nausea wash over him. It wasn't that Hayden was unattractive, because she really was quite pretty, it was the fact that she was so ugly on the inside. He felt so unbelievably full of regret in so many areas of his life, and this was definitely one of those areas.

He just wanted to feel something other than pain. Something other than the longing for and loathing of Violet Harmon, who it would seem couldn't care less if she never saw him again. His heart had never felt so bent and broken than the night she said goodbye. And there was Hayden, time and time again offering herself up as a comfort, a temporary way to forget about her. But he didn't forget about her. He thought of her the whole time.

And then there was his time with Sawyer; time where he really did feel relief. He felt like she took that pain and longing away from him and saw something in him more than the guy who had raped and impregnated Vivien Harmon. Killed Chad and Patrick. Attacked Ben Harmon.

_Broke Violet Harmon. Not just her heart; but really broke her._

And although Sawyer didn't know a damn thing about Tate, somewhere inside of him he felt like there was the chance that if he could really open up to her, it wouldn't change the way she looked at him with those big, blue-green-grey eyes. Not the way that Hayden was looking at him at this very moment. Like he was a fuck-up.

Interestingly enough, the only person who ever looked at him the way that Sawyer looked at him is the way that Constance used to when he was young, before his dad left and definitely before that fateful day in 1994.

_The perfect son._

And he hated the way Constance looked at him at the time, he felt uncomfortable. Fake. Like she wanted him to be something he wasn't. And now that he realized that he could never be that, he wanted nothing more than to be that. To have her look at him like that one more time, like he was good. Like he deserved something more than an eternity damned in this house. Something more than finally feeling love only to have it ripped away from him.

Hayden's eyes stared through him, piercing him.

"What do you want," he finally snapped. She smirked coyly.

"I saw you last night. Your little moment of passion with that little nanny." She found utter satisfaction in toying with Tate whenever she got the chance. The little game of cat and mouse was a favorite of hers.

"What about it," Tate said, becoming increasingly annoyed by her presence by the moment.

"Easy, Tiger. Just wanted to let you know Chad might have mentioned it to Violet. He said she looked pretty jealous," she said, seeming quite happy with herself. Tate felt his face flush. Anger surged inside his veins, but he tried to stay composed.

"Why would you do that?" he asked through clenched teeth. She giggled, and shrugged one shoulder pompously.

"Why not?" was her only response. He lunged at her, but before his hands could find her neck successfully, she was gone, and his hands were bare. Tate let out a yell of frustration, fell to the floor and slammed his fists into cement. Then again.

And again.

His hands ached, the skin broke. Blood flowed. He could see his fist prints in red across the cold ground. The feeling of the cool cement was strangely comforting, even if in only a matter of moments he would heal up good as new anyway.

_Self-mutilation is pointless in life and death._

"What have you done to yourself?" a familiar drawl gasped from the doorway. Constance, ever the picture of southern perfection, stood close by with her hand on her heart as she watched her son from above. Tate looked back down at the blood smeared into the concrete, ashamed to make eye contact with her.

"Don't worry about it," he suggested, sitting up and retreating to the far corner of the room. She timidly entered into the room further, as to not frighten a scared animal. Her heels clicked slowly on the ground, stopping at the blood, then side-stepping around it before continuing onward.

"What a mess you've made," she said, barely audibly at this point. The words punched Tate in the gut. He knew instantly that the blood smeared floor wasn't the only mess she was referring to. She looked at him softly, as a mother should, but with concern plastered across her aging face.

"Since I'm your son," he challenged, "doesn't that mean you're partly responsible for the mess?" Constance ignored his remarks; she was used to them about now.

"And the Harmon girl?" Constance didn't have to ask a full question, she let him fill in the blanks. It had been some time since they had talked, but she knew that things had to have come out about the rape and the baby by now.

"That's none of your concern." Constance extended her hand shakily to her son's face, and he quickly flinched away from it instinctively. She paused, but pursued anyway, feeling her son's soft face in her palm. For the first time in a long time, her hand lingered as he let it rest there. He closed his eyes, remembering what it felt like to be touched lovingly by her, by a mother. He placed his hand upon hers, and also let it rest a moment, before taking her hand slowly off of his cheek and opening his eyes with a sharp intake of breath.

"She left you, didn't she?" Constance asked with pain in her voice.

"Don't act like you care," Tate said, full of angst. Constance felt emotion well up within her, as her eyes filled with tears.

"I do care," she whispered, shaking her head slowly, still unbelieving that her son could think of her as such a horrible person. "Do you think I want you to be alone here? For all eternity? I just want you to be happy, Tate. That's all I've ever wanted."

"No!" Tate resisted, pulling away from her at last. "You only wanted me the way you wanted me!"

"Because I saw you as the best part of me!" Constance cried. "Don't you dare think anything I did I didn't do out of love!"

"You don't know what love is, mother! Love isn't manipulation! Love isn't coercion! It's a choice!"

"Nonsense, I love you!" Constance said through tears. Real ones, at that.

"You don't, mother. You never loved any of us. You didn't love me, you didn't love Beau, you didn't love Addie…and you sure didn't love Gwenie." Constance froze at the name, as Tate did with Ben.

"I loved you all-"

"What happened to her, mom? Do you even know?" Tate asked, grabbing her by the shoulders. Constance looked away from him, she couldn't meet his eyes. He gently shook her. "Did you know that she killed herself in this house? Did you know?" Constance slumped to her knees as wails began to pass through her body. Tate stepped back.

_She didn't know._

"You have no children left," Tate spat at her. "There is no love for us here."

"Why?" Constance sobbed. "Why didn't she come to me? Why has she hid from me in this house? Where is she?" Constance begged, gripping at Tate's sweater from the ground. He pried her grasping hands from him.

"She crossed over. I never even got to see her." Tate missed her more than anyone could imagine. They shared a womb. They shared a heartbeat. Both had long stopped beating, but he was still here, a part of him missing. He wanted to pity Constance as she mourned her daughter. They had never found a body. She had to have just believed that Gwen was out there somewhere, and had found a life she loved more. That was a comfort to her, even if it meant that Gwen never wanted anything to do with her again. At least it would have meant that she was still alive. Unlike her other children.

"Don't you understand" Tate asked, shaking his head at Constance. "You did this, mother! You did this when you drove dad away!" He said it slowly, deliberately. Like he had wanted to say it for so long. Fire flashed in Constance's eyes. She stood quickly.

"I DIDN'T DRIVE HIM AWAY I KILLED HIM!" Constance screamed. Tate stood dumbfounded. Stunned. He stumbled over what to say, but she didn't give him a chance. "You think you're so smart. How could you possibly live in the same house with your father for the last 17 years and never know he was there? He fucked anything and everything that walked and that red-headed maid was the final straw. So forget your sad little story about your father abandoning you, I killed him." Constance gave her son one last glare before turning on a heel, adjusting her blouse and leaving Tate alone with himself.

And this time, he wasn't sure if he would ever see her again.

* * *

><p><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>

Rebecca took the babies out to lunch and a movie. She offered to take Sawyer with them, but she wasn't feeling much of an appetite. She also told Sawyer she could go home, but Sawyer didn't have a home to go home to. In fact, the weeks at Murder House had felt more like a home to her than anywhere she had ever been; she certainly didn't feel at home with her foster parents. She was counting down the months until she was officially 18 and out of the system.

The only thing Sawyer had the energy for was finding her bed upstairs and collapsing into it. She looked out her window; the day was still young. She looked at the half-done yard work, instantly reminded of his earthy eyes, the ones he used to see the glass half-empty. He didn't show up today. That scared her more than anything, even his disappearing act the night before. The fact that he may have been a dream all along was impossible to comprehend.

_Am I going crazy?_

"I'm sorry I disappeared like that."

The voice was unmistakable. He always had a habit of popping up at the strangest times. She sat up in her bed and stared straight at him. She studied his face, his shoulders. His hands rested in his pockets to make him look at ease, but in all reality the way he fidgeted was a dead giveaway of his nervousness.

"I didn't mean to freak you out," he attempted.

"Who are you?" her eyes narrowed. He took a step into the room. Stopped.

"I can't tell you that."

"Rebecca never hired you. She told me." He gulped, but she never wavered.

"The dad-"

"He didn't either." She never took her eyes off of his face, but his eyes could never meet hers and he searched within himself for the right thing to say. "Want to try again? Who are you?" Tate stood silently.

"I used to live here." The answer was so simple, but so loaded. It didn't answer anything, and Sawyer wasn't satisfied. She stood and walked to him, arms folded.

"How did you get into this house?" she asked. He took a step back.

"I just know how to get in, okay?" he said defensively. "God, why does it matter?" he asked exasperatedly.

"Because you're lying!" she yelled. "Don't lie to me! Who are you! What do you want from me!" She felt her emotions welling up inside of her stomach. He didn't know what to say.

"I'm just a guy. Who likes you. And I want you to like me."

"Like you? I don't even KNOW you!" she shouted, running an exasperated hand through her long, wavy caramel locks. She turned away from him but he turned her back around.

"Sawyer, you wouldn't understand. You couldn't possibly understand and the last time someone found out about me…" he paused, biting his tongue. She stared at him with big, sad and confused eyes. Slate grey.

"Yeah?" she asked, awaiting a response.

"It killed her," he said finally. Sadness turned to fear in her eyes, so he hugged onto her and whispered into her hair. It smelled of coconut and vanilla. "I would never, ever hurt you. You just need to trust me for now. It will all make sense eventually." She pulled away from him and looked into his eyes. Her hand found his cheek gently as she caressed it slowly, just trying to convince herself he was real. Without thinking, she brought her lips to his slowly, her tongue prying his waiting lips apart and searching for his. He eagerly took her into his mouth and fell into the kiss passionately, tilting her chin upwards. She stood on her tip-toes as she wrapped her arms lovingly around her neck, grinding her body to his to feel his closeness. They parted slowly, although both reluctant.

"Can you just trust me for now?" he asked with pain in his eyes. She turned from him and sat on the bed, scooting herself so her back was against the headboard. She gestured for him to come, and he followed, snuggling up close to her and burying his face into her neck, taking in her scent. She caressed his hair and held him like one would comfort a small child.

"For now," she whispered.


	7. Playground Martyrs

Chapter 7

**Playground Martyrs  
><strong>

_A/N: Happy Monday, all! This is a shorter chapter, but big things has been quite a process….writer's block has gotten the best of me. I am pulled in other directions for a new FF I will be posting as soon as this one is done. This fic is officially Tate/OC, but there are still hints of Violate. Someone asked me in a review so I thought I would clarify. I am also toying with the idea of a sequel, since I have so many other places I may want to take this universe. Also, I posted a one-shot Violate fic called "Nothing Like You and I," so be sure to check it out. Much love to everyone. XOXO Enjoy and review…?_

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><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

Tate Langdon felt watched.

In all the time since Violet said goodbye, he had only felt her presence around him a couple times; fleeting, blurred glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye or he would catch her scent passing by him in the hallway. And once he felt her hugging onto him in the basement.

But on the most part, Tate felt very alone in the house until Sawyer moved in. Now that Sawyer was his, he could sense Violet everywhere. Watching him. Following him. He could smell her cigarette smoke. Feel her cold hand on his back. It was as if Violet Harmon was haunting him.

And the way that made him feel could only be described in one word: Indifferent.

For so long his heart hurt so badly he thought it might burst when he lost her. And now, he wasn't sure if he could take her coming back into his afterlife. He found comfort in not seeing her face every day, being able to move past her. He found comfort in Sawyer's soft eyes, the ones who saw the glass half full and saw him as someone she admired.

Someone that he knew deep down he wasn't.

_And here is where it gets tricky. _

Summer was starting to fizzle out. The weather would remain beautiful almost year-long, but school was just around the corner, at in the time he had spent with Sawyer, he had no idea if she was going to continue to nanny for the Grants.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Sawyer said, pushing a stray lock of blonde hair out of Tate's eyes as they lay on the bed, tangled up in one another.

"I just need to know," Tate said with an edge in his voice. "I mean, what if I don't see you again?" Sawyer chuckled.

"Always so dramatic, Tate. We'll see each other. It doesn't have to be here," she said.

But it did have to be here. He didn't have a choice. He was bound to this house. And she was free to go.

They had dropped the topic of Tate's disappearing act, and deep down Sawyer knew there was something very different and off about Tate Langdon. But she tried not to press it, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. And Tate was just fine with that; the longer he didn't have to explain himself, paint himself as the monster he really was, the better.

Tate held Sawyer tightly to him, and lay his head down on her chest taking in the simple sound of her heartbeat. He loved that sound. He loved her warmth and her light; he loved her skin and her eyes. He loved every inch of her. And the idea that she might not be here, that he might not see her, sent Tate into a panic that immobilized him.

"I wish you could stay here with me, for always," Tate said in almost a whisper. Sawyer closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

"You don't live here, Tate," she reciprocated. He didn't say anything. It wasn't the time. Although he was aware that time was running out.

"I think I'm in love with you," Tate said, staring into her eyes. She smirked, and ran her fingers through his knotted up hair.

"I think I'm in love with you, too," she whispered. Tate laid his head back down on her chest and felt his eyes welling up with tears. He knew what this meant. The only way they could be together forever is if he stopped her precious heart from beating anymore.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

Violet knew what was happening. She knew that look in Tate's eyes and she knew what he was thinking. That was the problem with being connected to someone like she and Tate were connected; she knew what to expect because nothing surprised her anymore. She could see the desperation on Tate's face, the fact that he was realizing that he was running out of time and that Sawyer may not come back into this house after the summer was over.

About the fact that Tate wasn't normal. About the fact that Tate didn't have a phone number, or a house for that matter. Tate was stuck in purgatory here with the rest of them and he had two choices in his mind. Tell her what he was and risk losing her forever, or kill her and deal with the consequences later. A sane person would opt for the first choice, but it was clear over the course of knowing him that Tate was so far off the deep end he was finding sunken treasure.

So Violet sat there, watching them. She pitied Sawyer with heaviness in her heart, knowing what was coming for her soon, and it wasn't going to be pretty. But what did she care. It wasn't her job to save dumb girls from Tate or clean up his messes. No, Sawyer was on her own.

Violet watched as Tate and Sawyer cuddled on her bed. She was flooded with the memories of when that was her. Naïve. Hanging on to his every word and not knowing what kind of horrible things Tate was capable of.

_Ignorance is bliss._

And Sawyer was blissfully unaware of what awaited her. What Tate was plotting. The wheels in his head were turning, and Violet could see it in his eyes. Was it going to be a 'suicide?' Was he going to convince Sawyer that it was the only way they could be together, as he tried with her? Was it going to be an 'accident?' People sure get clumsy around stairs now and then. Or was he going to get out his aggression and strangle the life out of her, like he did with Chad before he shot him in the chest? It was clear to Violet that her mind wasn't the only one mulling over this. Tate had the crazy look in his eyes again, and it was apparent that Sawyer was no longer safe with him.

"I thought I'd find you here," Vivien said, standing in the doorway. Violet looked over at her, no longer moved to try and hide her smoking habit. Vivien shook her head and took a seat next to her daughter as they watched Sawyer slumber happily in Tate's arms. He stayed awake, staring at nothing in particular, a million miles away. "You okay, Vi?" Vivien asked slowly. She knew that although her daughter no longer felt she could admit it aloud, she missed Tate more than she would let on. Violet shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly.

"Fine," she said, although it came out as more of a small grunt. Vivien placed at hand on her daughter's knee and they watched the couple together.

"You know what this means, right?" Vivien asked, her mind not far from where Violet's had been. "He's not going to let her leave, here, Violet."

"What do I care?" Violet snorted. She took a long puff on her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. Vivien swatted the smoke away and gave her daughter's hand a gentle squeeze.

"You see a lot of yourself in her, don't you?" Vivien asked. Violet rolled her eyes and chuckled at her mother.

"You really should leave the shrinking up to dad, he's the professional." Vivien ignored her daughter's comment, she knew Violet was still hurting inside.

"Violet, you know what burden we took on when we became part of this house. It is our job to protect the living from it. That includes Sawyer." Violet felt her cheeks grow hot and her eyes burn with tears. She wouldn't break down, she wouldn't cry. That wasn't who Violet was anymore.

"What am I supposed to do? Introduce myself? _'Hi, I'm Tate's dead ex-girlfriend?'_ It doesn't work like that. And if she's dumb enough to fall for it like I did, she deserves it." Vivien grabbed her daughter's face and looked at her in the eyes.

"NO one deserves this, not you, not me, not even Hayden. No one deserves being bound to this house forever; no one deserves the pain of watching life go on without them. And that girl is under his spell, as you were too, and she is going to end up as another victim to this house. I've watched her sleepwalk, Violet. I've watched her. And this house is trying to claim her. Tate is trying to claim her. She deserves a chance. And I believe you're the only one who can help her." Violet pulled away from Vivien's grasp and stared at the bed angrily.

"Why me?" Violet squeaked meekly. Vivien held onto her daughter and kissed the top of her head.

"Because you know what it is like to love Tate, Violet. You know what it is like to be her."

Violet watched Tate brush Sawyer's long, caramel waves lovingly with his fingers, then inch out from underneath her. It was inevitable that he was going to skulk back down to the basement to figure out and plot his next move, whatever that may be. He wandered out of the room, stopping at the doorway to give Sawyer one last longing glance, before disappearing down the hallway.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

Sawyer awoke crying from her nightmare, as she did every night. Unlike falling asleep in Tate's arms, she was now alone in her bed, but she wasn't completely alone. She felt eyes upon her; she saw a shadow in the chair in the corner of the room. She adjusted her eyes to the darkness, barely making out a womanly figure watching her from the chair, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She saw smoke rising as the figure just sat motionless in the corner.

Sawyer felt a hot nervousness wash over her in waves as she tried to calm her beating heart. The image of someone watching her sleep, someone she didn't know, terrified her. She glanced around the room, hoping Tate was still there but he was gone.

"He-hello?" she finally muttered into the darkness. The hand slowly rose to the shadow's mouth, puffing on the cigarette. "Who's there?" Sawyer asked with more gusto in her voice. Through the darkness she could see the whites of the figure's eyes, like they were almost glowing.

"You should really get out while you still can," she said.

"Who are you?" Sawyer asked again, never leaving what the safety of her bed.

"That's not important," she said.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?" Sawyer asked, becoming increasingly upset.

"I'm here to warn you. You need to get out. Or you'll end up like me."

"Who ARE you?" Sawyer practically yelled. The figure stood, slowly entering the light from the streetlights spilling in through the window from outside. Violet stood, clearly visible to Sawyer. Sawyer recognized her, but she wasn't sure where from. Suddenly, images of the Harmons flashed in her head and she swallowed hard. It couldn't be, could it?

"I think you know who I am," she said cryptically. Sawyer sat up all the way in her bed, trying to get a better look at Violet. This had to have been a dream.

_It's just a dream._

"You're…you're Violet, right?" Violet nodded slowly. Sawyer chuckled nervously and shook her head. "No. You can't be. Violet is dead." Violet just stood staring at Sawyer, she felt herself squirm under Violet's intense gaze. "Right? I mean…I read the story in the paper. I watched them take your body from this house," Sawyer rambled. Violet sat lightly at the end of the bed.

"You're right," Violet said lowly. "I am dead."

"I don't- I don't understand," Sawyer's head hurt. She knew what she was seeing and hearing. It was right in front of her. The appearance of this girl was uncanny to the dead Harmon daughter but the logical side of her just couldn't bring herself to believe it. It wouldn't compute in her head that this was really happening.

_It's just a dream._

_It's just a __**dream**__._

"It's just a dream," Sawyer whispered aloud. Violet scoffed.

"Whatever makes it easier on you. Fine. It's a dream. But listen to me now." Violet demanded. She knew that wherever Sawyer was, Tate wasn't too far away and she only had a moment to talk to her. "He's going to kill you."

"Who?" Sawyer asked, sleep still in her eyes. "Who's going to kill me?"

"Tate," Violet spat, annoyed at having to spell everything out for Sawyer. "He's going to kill you so you can stay here with him, forever."

Sawyer bit her lip and shook her head, placing her head in her hands.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Sawyer protested. Violet smirked.

"I was like you once," she sang, rising. She began to pace back and forth. "This was my room, actually. Then I found out who Tate was," she paused, remembering everything. "He's a monster." Violet toyed with the brush on the vanity, and looked back over at Sawyer hauntingly. "When I found out what he was, what he had done, it killed me. I couldn't handle the truth. And you won't be able to, either." Sawyer didn't know what to say. She just listened. "But what came after was so, so much worse."

"I- I don't believe you," Sawyer choked out. But she did. She did believe Violet and something in her gut told her that this wasn't a dream. Violet let of the same presence she had felt watching her multiple times around the house. She knew something was wrong about Tate, she didn't know what it was but her mind was slowly trying to make sense of everything that was happening to her.

"You don't have to believe me," Violet sighed. "Ask him yourself."

And as quick as a blink, Sawyer was alone in the room and Violet was gone.

The rest of the night was a sleepless one for Sawyer, as she thought about what had just happened, hoping and praying that it all had been a dream. She got up quickly and opened her laptop, hurried to Google, always looking over her shoulder and she searched his name. The number of pages were limitless.

News reports, sociology and psychology articles, message boards, even fan sites. Tate was a legend in his own right. At first, Sawyer felt numb. This had to be a joke, a sick, sick joke. But as she read, as she saw the faces of the people he had murdered and read about his own death in this very house, Sawyer began to hyperventilate. She stood, the room spinning, trying desperately to make it to her bed, but instead she hit the floor and everything went black.

_I think I'm in love with you._

Was it possible to love someone who wasn't even alive?


	8. Sleeping Sickness

Chapter 8

Sleeping Sickness

_A/N: I. Hate. Writer's. Block. Very special thanks to Shilo Coulter for helping me pull myself out of it. Thanks to all of you who are reviewing, I appreciate it very much. I think as writer's, we all do. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<br>**_

Tate sat in the chair across the room, as the darkness of the night hid him from sight. Silent, blue moonlight poured in from the window and illuminated her gentle curves, painting her white in its light. She slept soundly, although Tate was surprised to have found her on the floor when he returned from the basement. He scooped her up and gently put her back into her bed, and the mystery was soon solved when he glanced at her laptop and saw what she had been reading. Fear gripped him instantly: She knew. And now he had to figure out what he was to say to her when she awoke.

He thought about gently smothering her with a pillow. It would be swift but painless, she wouldn't even remember it. Then she wouldn't have a choice.

But that's not what Tate wanted.

_That's not what I want…_

He wanted her to have a choice. And he wanted her to choose him.

The thought, once put out in his mind, seemed insane. How could he expect her to choose death? How could he possibly want her to be with him if it meant her heart no longer beat, her blood no longer pumped through her veins? How could he want that for her if he truly loved her?

Tate ran an exasperated hand through his hair, hot tears forming in his eyes. The torment of the choice was more than he could bear. At this point, he just didn't know what was going to happen. He knew who was behind this; at least he was pretty sure he knew.

_Violet._

She was watching him so closely lately, there was no way it wasn't her. No one else had the guts to tell Sawyer the truth, who he really was. No one had a reason to. No one had anything to gain from it. Except Violet. Whether it was jealousy or revenge, there was no doubt in Tate's mind that Violet was the one who sent her sniffing around for information about who he was. And he wasn't even there to hold her and assure her that everything was okay when she found out.

He watched as Sawyer began to stir. He hurried to her, sitting beside her on the bed. He lovingly stroked her forehead with his cold hands, and she opened her eyed, glistening in the starlight. At first, as he stared into her eyes, he saw a flicker of fear, on confusion, but as he ran his fingertips gingerly across her lips, her chin, her neck, a smile broke across her lips and she gently leaned her head into his hand welcomingly. Tate leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead, her nose, and then she redirected him to her lips. He was taken aback, confused by how calm she seemed to be. He pulled away and stared deeply into her eyes, as she stroked his cheek with her soft thumb.

"I have to tell you- about what you read-" Tate attempted. She shook her head.

"I know," she coughed out quickly, "I can't say I understand, but I know already." Tate bit his lip timidly, his pulse racing and his nervousness still nipping at his heels. Anxiously he stood, pacing around the room.

"That's it? I mean, don't you want to know why? I killed people, Sawyer." He stared at nothing in particular as his body froze. "I put a gun to people's heads…and I pulled the trigger."

"I know," Sawyer said sitting up a bit, tears in her eyes. "I read." Tate turned to her quickly, grabbing her by each shoulder and shaking her lightly.

"I set my mom's boyfriend on fire." She gulped. She hadn't read that part. Tate watched her reluctantly nod.

"Okay." Without warning, Tate tossed her back; she barely missed hitting her head on the headboard. Tate began to pace furiously around the room, she had never seen him this way before. Tate was becoming unhinged.

"It's not okay!" He yelled at her, his face becoming red and his eyes growing darker by the second. She stared on, fearful but strong. "I raped Violet's mother. I killed people who lived here before them. I. Am. A. Monster." He spelled out for her. Sawyer sat up and got out of bed, gliding across the room to him. She placed her hands on the back of his neck and pressed her lips to his. He resisted, pushing her away, but she latched on. When he finally broke away, he stared at her with disgust. "What is wrong with you? What kind of person loves a person like me? Get out!" out while you still can!"

"That's who you were," Sawyer interjected, trying to force him to look at her face.

"No, Sawyer! It's who I AM. I've been lying to you since the beginning, but I can't control who I am. I will hurt you. I could kill you," he said through tears, pushing her away. She fought back.

"You wouldn't hurt me, I know you wouldn't."

"You're wrong," Tate insisted. "I _want_ to kill you. I want you dead and stuck her with me. You _need_ to leave." Her eyes watched him carefully, sorrowfully. "I don't want to see you again."

The words stung coming out of his mouth, full of lies. He wanted to eat his words back up before they made it to her ears, but he knew this was for the best. He needed her out of this house. She would learn to hate him, just like the rest of them. She still had a chance. A chance to live, to grow old, to love someone who wasn't a disease, wouldn't destroy her from the inside out. Sawyer wiped the hot tears from her eyes and walked slowly to her vanity, sitting on the bench. Tate watched her pick up her brush and run it through her long hair, her eyes watching herself intently as if in a trance. He didn't know what to say, he turned and walked to his chair defeated.

"I can't leave," Sawyer finally said after a long silence, quietly. He could see her eyes watch him hauntingly in the mirror as she fidgeted with something in her hands.

"Goddamn it, get out!" Tate screamed at her. She stood leisurely, unmoving, staring at the floor.

"I don't want to leave," she whispered.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Tate looked down to see the splatters of red dripping at her feet, falling from her freshly cut wrist. In a panic, Tate rushed to her clothing drawer, tightly wrapping a scarf around the wound.

"What the _fuck_, Sawyer? What are you thinking?" he asked angrily. He was sure he would never forget the look on her face at this moment. A slow, toothless smile spread eerily across her lips.

"Either you kill me," she said matter-of-factly, "Or I will."

* * *

><p><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>

Violet sat in the attic, quietly reading a book she found downstairs, As I Lay Dying. She knew it was Sawyer's, but whenever there was a chance of getting her hands on anything new in this house, she took it. She read the same paragraph over and over again, realizing each time that her current thoughts couldn't seem to stay on the words. She couldn't read with all the loudness in her head. She just wanted quiet, but she couldn't quiet the thoughts. Irked by minor and major demons, Violet set the book down and sighed loudly.

Beau grunted. He wanted to play.

He always wants to play.

"Not now, Beau. I just want to be alone."

Beau granted her request and disappeared into his own realm of the house. Violet was left alone with her ridiculously loud mind.

Was telling Sawyer the right thing to do? She was at odds about the decision for hours now. She knew deep down it was, but she also remembered how when she found out, she chased a sip of water with a bottle of sleeping pills. It was clear in Violet's mind, and everyone's minds, for that matter, that Tate was a sickness that no one could seem to overcome. He had affected each and every one of the residents in the home in one way or another, and now he had his claws into Sawyer, and from Violet could see she loved every second of it. She mulled over the options, or lack of options, she felt she had.

"VIOLET!"

The pitch, the tone, and the loudness made Violet shoot straight up to her feet. She recognized that voice, and she instinctively hid herself immediately, hurrying by the corner of the attic, waiting for him to find come looking for her.

"VIOLET, WHERE ARE YOU?" He yelled. His voice was getting louder and louder. Violet hadn't heard him call out for her like this in some time, not since Sawyer had arrived. Before this was a normal occurrence, and it took a couple of the others pinning him down or putting him down in the basement before it would subside.

This time, it wasn't yells of a lovesick, pained boy. She could hear the disgust in his voice, the way he spit her name out quickly as to not let it linger on his tongue. He was out for blood. She could hear his steps nearing, the loud squeaking of the unoiled hinges on the retractable attic staircase being lowered, and she stopped breathing altogether as he stomped up the ladder, one step at a time.

"Violet, I know you're in here," he hissed as he entered the attic. "I can smell you."

Violet stayed hidden as he paced around the attic. Beau called out for Tate, but he was too busy looking for her to pay any attention to him.

"Where is she?" Tate asked, Beau cowered and refused to indulge in Tate's little game of hide and seek. "Where?" He yelled, grabbing at Beau. It was uncharacteristic for Tate to ever react angrily to Beau, but fiery anger flushed through his veins. He needed to see her. Now. Beau yelped under Tate's strong grip.

"Leave him alone," Violet intervened from her dark corner. Tate shuddered at the sound of her voice, his grip on Beau softening as he turned slowly to face her. He tried to keep any emotion for spreading across his face, but Violet could see the glimmer of pain in his eyes when he looked at her for the first time in what seemed to be forever. Then, his face changed, and in an instant Tate had his hands on her neck, pinning her to the attic wall. Violet choked under his strong grip, her feet barely grazing against the floor, desperately searching for footing. It didn't matter that she knew she couldn't die. It didn't matter that she didn't have to breathe. Human instinct is to fight for your life.

Violet began kicking at Tate, desperate for some release. He stared at her coldly in the eyes.

"Why?" he spat through clenched teeth. "Do you know what you've done?" Violet gagged as she then hurled a foot forward hitting him straight in the crotch. Instinctively, Tate released her and hunched over in severe pain. Violet ran to the other side of the attic, gasping for breath.

"You're still- just as- psychotic as before!" Violet screamed between breaths. Tate tried to compose himself, but the pain still showed in his face through his tear-filled eyes.

"How could you do that to her? You know what it did to you when you found out!" Tate screamed at her. Violet laughed mockingly.

"Good! Maybe she'll just off herself so you don't have to do it for her!" Violet yelled back. "You destroy everything you touch! I was trying to save her!"

Tate seethed in the corner, knowing full well that he didn't have any true reason to be mad at Violet. She was doing what he didn't have the courage to do; be honest. But he didn't anticipate Sawyer's reaction. It was as if she was pushed over the edge. He had foreseen her running out the door the first chance she got, instead she was trying desperately to join him. And he didn't know how he felt about that anymore. He didn't _want_ to be a monster, he didn't _want_ to take another life, directly or indirectly.

"What's wrong Tate? Did she come to her senses and run out on you? Is your plan ruined? Is THAT why you're mad?" Violet sneered. Tate said nothing, he stared at his feet. "You're pathetic," Violet laughed. "Good, she got out, I'm glad you're alone."

"She didn't get out," Tate said quietly. Violet's eyes widened.

"You did it, didn't you? You killed her too?"

"No!" Tate screamed, back to pacing across the attic again and again.

"Well, what did you do!"

"Nothing!" Tate screamed right into her face. "I didn't do anything! But she stood there and slit her wrists right in front of me! She's unstable!"

Violet instantly remembered the pills. The way they felt in her stomach. The aching pain in her heart as Tate dragged her to the bathroom and begged her to live. He wanted her to live.

_He would want her to live, too._

"Where is she? Is she alright?" Violet asked. She knew deep down she wasn't sure she really even cared. She just knew that she had to ask.

"I don't think it was deep enough, I got the bleeding to stop. She's sleeping." Tate sat on the floor, placing his head in his hands and sobbing into them. "Why'd you have to do it, Vi? Why'd you have to tell her?"

Violet couldn't help but feel guilt slowly rising in her, although she knew she shouldn't. She did what was right, she told Sawyer the truth. But deep down, she wasn't sure if she told her the truth to make herself feel better, or watch out for Sawyer. And that was something she was going to have to live with for an eternity in this house if she died.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

Sawyer stood at the gate outside of the sprawling mansion, gazing towards it. She could see Tate, standing somberly at the upstairs window, staring back at her. The evening summer sun hit her with full force, causing her caramel curls to shine like gold. Her sparkling eyes were misty. She glanced at her bandaged wrist. It itched. She tried her best not to want to scratch it.

She had covered her bandage with bangle bracelets, but she knew people would probably still look. They would probably still draw up conclusions, make assumptions. They would probably, on some level, even be right. But no one could possibly understand the thoughts racing through Sawyer Greene's head. All she knew was that tonight may be the first or last night of the rest of her life, and she wasn't sure if she was ready.

Sawyer thought of her mother, of foster care, of the torment she had already endured during her 17-years of life. The fact was, she had come to grips with was that she was already dying, on some level. People die a little more every day. The fact was that ever since the doctors told Sawyer why she was so tired and out of breath, and that a heart transplant was unlikely with her blood and tissue type, she had already come to terms with her own mortality. The idea of dying alone, with no one, in that bleak hospital bed made her even sadder than the idea that she would not be able to carry a child to term, or walk down an aisle to see a groom with a smile only for her.

No, Sawyer already knew her days were numbered and that one day her heart would just give out. She liked the idea of choosing when or where it happened. She liked the idea of an afterlife. A new start. A place where her life beforehand was not applicable to life afterwards.

_An afterlife with him_.

"Sawyer, are you gonna stand outside all day?" Rebecca laughed from the doorway, Richard closely behind her. She smiled politely and waved, her party dress swishing as she made her way up the walk and into the house.

She wore black as if she were going to a funeral.


	9. Don't Be Afraid, You're Already Dead

Chapter 9

**Don't Be Afraid, You're Already Dead**

_A/N: Took a hiatus that really just lasted way too long. Got a puppy very recently and it's taken up 99.9% of my time, so sorry for the delay. It's been quite some time. This is the last chapter of Ain't No Rest for the Wicked, I will hopefully be moving on to my next fanfic immediately. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

Tate could see her through the window, glowing in the summer sunlight, looking quite decisively at the house before her. Bracelets and bandages covered her dainty wrist, and her eyes spoke volumes. She stared at the house, as if staring into the abyss. And when one stares at the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you.

It was hard to read her since that night; she was always in her head. But it didn't matter anyway. He had made up his mind.

_I am not going to be a monster._

Nothing really mattered anymore. Somewhere inside Tate, he knew the only thing that really mattered to him at all was keeping Sawyer safe. He was always at odds with himself, now. He wanted her, he wanted her forever. But how could he keep her at such a cost? When Violet died, he was heartbroken for her. But at the same time, Tate knew what it meant; it meant having her. Forever.

But Tate didn't have Violet forever. He didn't even have her at all.

And as he watched Sawyer stare at the house that would be her tomb, he felt twinges of pain in his heart knowing that she would never be the same again. This place changed people; this place ate people alive and spit them out broken. She was so beautiful, just as she was. Whole.

_Alive_.

Gentle blood flowed through her glorious veins and her cheeks pinkened when she was embarrassed, or flushed, or when he touched her just right. He had no doubt that she would still blush afterwards, after she was dead. But she would be an empty shell of who she once was. She would be chained to him for eternity, and to him, that was damnation worse than Hell itself.

_You destroy everything you touch. _

"Well?" It didn't matter how hard he tried to deny it, her voice still made him weak. It was as if her words repeating in his head caused him to summon her accidentally. He turned, but didn't have to see her to know it was her. Trademark cigarette in hand. Disheveled, beautiful disaster of an ill-fitting party dress hanging haphazardly from her small frame. The hat didn't match, but it was her. She seemed to pull it off anyway.

"What." It wasn't a question. Curt. Short. The only way he knew to speak to her now, the only way he could protect himself.

_And her._

"Is tonight the night?" Violet asked darkly, stretching herself out on the couch like a cat. He could swear he could almost hear her purr with curiosity. He scoffed.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"How's she gonna do it, I wonder? Think she'll put her head in the oven after the appetizers?" Tate didn't dignify the statement with a response; he knew she was just trying to get to him. Strange how the house had changed Violet so much.

_Strange how I changed her so much._

"Maybe she'll sneak out to the garage and start the car…."

"They drive a hybrid."

"Hmm. Too bad," Violet mused.

"Can't you talk her out of it?" Tate asked hopelessly. Violet scoffed loudly.

"Right!" she rolled her eyes nonchalantly, "tried that. Just seemed to make things worse last I checked…"

Tate watched as Sawyer finally walked up the pathway at up to the house. He felt his heart sink. Violet stared on, amusedly. Faintly, she began to hum the funeral march.

"Stop it!" Tate yelled, shoving Violet away from him.

She was gone.

Tate adjusted his semi-formal attire. He had a party to attend.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

The house was transformed into an elegant, gorgeous gala. The place was alive with guests, some already settled in and some just arriving. Rebecca and the party planners had really gone all out to dress the place up to perfection. As she glanced around the room, she saw many faces, some that looked familiar from TV and some she had never met before. She nervously pulled at her bandages, making sure they were fully covered by bracelets.

Phebe and Caden were dressed in their little formal outfits, the center of attention to many of the oohing and awing guests, while Richard talked business and Rebecca beamed proudly. They introduced Sawyer as if she was one of them, which made Sawyer smile faintly. She was always uncomfortable in the spotlight, so she was more than happy to hand it back over to Caden, who wowed the crowd with his rendition 'ABC's' (which put L, M, N and O all squished together into a new letter called _elemmenno,_ and a couple letters missing altogether_)_. Sawyer took this as an opportunity to slip away from the party and up to her room.

It was surprisingly quiet, although she could easily hear the muffled laughter from the floor below. She sat on the edge of her bed and waited, she knew it was only a matter of moments before he found her. He was going to try to talk her out of it.

_Again_.

And she was going to have to tell him that her mind was made up. She was his.

"You look beautiful," he mumbled from the dark. She smiled, her heart feeling heavy with anticipation.

"Come where I can see you," she whispered, searching for his pale face in the darkness. Slowly, he immerged, a sullen ghost in the dark horizon, almost glowing towards her. She stood to meet him, but he sat her back down on the bed and kneeled before her. He gently brought his hand up and caressed her bronze skin; her shoulders, her neck, and her chin. She leaned her head down to meet his, forehead to forehead.

"I love you," he whispered softly. The giddiness that those words made her feel came out in a small giggle, before she lightly pecked his lips with hers and reciprocated. "I wish we could stay in here…forget about the party," he coaxed, his hand running up along her thigh. She shuddered involuntarily, her body aching to feel his for once. While she was still young. While she was still alive.

"Soon," she promised. "Then we'll have forever," her eyes smiled, but his diminished. He turned cold and his lips tightened. "What is it?" she swallowed, knowing full well why he suddenly changed. "Don't you want me?" she teased, her legs slightly spreading. His eyes traveled down and he instantly thought of a million ways he would like to ravage her right then and there. Sawyer read his mind.

Slowly but deliberately, Sawyer placed her hand on the back of Tate's neck and forced his face to hers, which he couldn't seem to resist falling into. Their lips collided clumsily, eagerly, as they took one another in passionately. Before long, Tate had Sawyer pinned down on her small bed, hips locked tight, and Sawyer couldn't tell whose limbs from whose. They tangled. Hands tangled hair, legs tangled legs. It wasn't too much later that Sawyer's beautiful, black dress became a floor decoration, Tate's clothing soon following.

Sawyer was a virgin, at least that's what she liked to consider herself. She had long ago decided that it wasn't truly a loss of virginity until it was willing. It had been taken from her before, foster home nightmares, but now she wanted to willingly give herself to Tate on this night.

Tate's animalistic instinct took over as her explored her petite body, taking her in with all of his senses. She was his prey. He wanted to attack her every inch, leaving no stone unturned. He was looking for what was rightfully his, what she was happy to give it him.

When he found what he was looking for, he paused, staring deeply into her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he whispered. He was only being polite, he didn't really care what her answer was at this point, although with the lust and love in her eyes he knew there was no other answer than "yes, yes, oh, god yes!" She didn't have to say a word; he took the plunge and lowered himself into her.

Sawyer squealed uncomfortably, but it was that pain that was so bad it was good. She felt herself rise to meet him, desperately wanting him as far inside of her as he could go. She wriggled and squirmed underneath his strong body, adjusting herself until she was good and comfortable, then began rocking herself slowly to welcome his movement. He happily obliged.

Their pace quickened, and their objective wasn't at all to savor the moment, but to reach the end that they both so desperately craved from one another. Sawyer felt herself growing warm, tingling from the inside out as her climax grew inside of her. Together, they both reached the finish line, before Tate collapsed atop of her, panting from their passionate but fast tryst.

Sawyer stoked his hair, her legs still hoisted up atop his back. She could feel his chest slowly expanding and contracting, all the while his should-be-nonexistent heart still beat firmly against her. She waited for him to speak, but when he didn't, she finally spoke the words she had been waiting to say for so long.

"I'm dying," she choked out. Tate tensed, before looking up at her through his black, soulless eyes.

"So, you're still going through with it?" he asked heatedly. Tears formed in her eyes quicker than she had planned, her hand flew up quickly to wipe them away.

"No, it's not like that," she began. He got up quickly, tearing himself away from her. He began to dress. "Tate, would you listen to me?"

"I told you I didn't want to be the reason you kill yourself!" he shouted at her angrily.

"It's not, Tate. I'm dying. I mean _dying_ dying." She paused, her voice cracking. "I'm sick."

"Sick like how?"

"Sick like…I don't have much longer."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tate asked, his hard eyes softening. She shook the tears away from her eyes, not sure how to find the right words to say.

"I didn't think I needed to…I thought you would understand. I'm dying anyway. I just want it to be on my own terms. Not because my heart can't beat strong enough to keep me alive." Tate paced the floor, unsure of how to respond, but clearly agitated from the news. Suddenly, Tate's already conflicted mind was racing on overdrive. What if she didn't kill herself and her heart gave out somewhere else? Somewhere that she could cross over? Somewhere that he would never see her again?

"So you figured, what? That you'd just kill yourself here instead?" Tate asked coldly. Sawyer stared at him, but more through him than anything. Her listless, tired eyes looked heavy.

"I really thought you of all people would understand why I have to do this…I just saw it as one more chance... Life after death." She paused hoping that the words would register in Tate's mind and he could be supportive of her self-conclusive decision. His searched desperately for anything to distract away from her face. "To find out that life after death really exists…it's the most comfort I've gotten since I found out," Sawyer said in almost a whisper. Tate shook his head meekly, his eyes not being able to find hers at this point. "I love you, Tate. I want to be with you. Forever."

"Can't you fight it? Can't they do anything? I mean, medicine has come a long way…" Tate pleaded. Sawyer shook her head.

"I thought you would want this," she whispered. He stared straight through her. He didn't know what he wanted. He had hoped so much that there was a way to deter her from ending her life in Murder House, but knowing that she was dying just made her intentions even more evident. He desperately didn't want to be the reason for yet another death in this house.

But it was clear now that she was even more damned and determined.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Violet Harmon<strong>_

_What a stupid party._

The place was dressed up in a way Violet had never imagined the house could be. It was already a gorgeous home; she thought the tacky, overly elaborate decorations just depreciated the value of the glorious dwelling. Violet glanced around the room haphazardly, faces of the ghosts blending nicely with the other invited guests.

_Dead among the living. _

Or was it living among the dead? She wasn't quite sure anymore. Death didn't seem so different from life anymore. Both were long, boring and ultimately full of woe. She waved slightly at Chad, who hardly seemed to notice her. Hollywood was full of closeted homosexuals, and it seemed Chad was busy chatting one up at that very moment, much to Patrick's obvious dismay. She didn't feel bad for him, however. Boys would be boys and it was only a matter of time before Patrick would find someone to sneak off to a closet with himself.

Hayden stared longingly at her father.

_Pathetic._

Hayden didn't hide her obvious longing, and Vivien eyed her back from Ben's arm, both chatting nicely with a producer and his wife. They joined the party to make sure the others were on their best behavior. Not all of the undead were in attendance, but Violet knew the drill. The nurses would wait to haunt party guests who wandered into the bathroom, and the infantata waited in the basement for a horny couple to sneak off into the shrouded darkness of the basement. With all the fresh meat, Violet was sure of only one thing: there would be blood shed tonight, one way or another.

Like clockwork, snapping Violet out of her thoughts, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the party from the kitchen. Party goers hurried to see what the fuss was about, only to find that a mouse, envoy from his village within the crawlspace of the house, had ventured out in search of food among the kitchen, scaring a director's wife half to death. She had to admit, she was disappointed. The party really was a big snooze fest.

She wondered about Tate. She knew he had snuck off to see Sawyer, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she was to join them among the other dead house guests. The thought made her blood boil. The house already seemed crowded enough as it was, let alone watching Tate and Sawyer fawn over one another for all eternity.

She watched Sawyer from afar. Rebecca handed her Phebe and a tired Caden, most likely asking her to put them to bed. Her pinkened cheeks told Violet that she had been up to no good, and Tate's guilty face didn't seem any more relaxed. She watched as Sawyer reluctantly climbed the steps, ascending away from the party. Tate never took his eyes away from her, a look of agitation smoldering under his empty visage. Violet assumed that Tate was still fuming about the looming suicide, and she couldn't really blame him. When he found Violet passed out on her bed next to a bottle of pills, the poor boy tried so hard to save her.

_You're not a person; you're a monster._

But Tate _wasn't_ a monster to Violet, still after all this time and all the things he had done. He was a scared, lost little boy that couldn't help but act out and seek attention in the most drastic ways possible. And he didn't want Sawyer dead. He wanted her to live, to love him. He fed off the life that they exuded when living. He craved it.

Violet felt uneasy; all the people in the house made her nervous and on guard to come to anyone's aid. It wasn't her wish for the house to claim any more lives, things were cramped here enough as it was. Still, something was amiss, and it didn't take long before she smelled it.

_Smoke_?

Black smoke began to creep in from under the library door, and no one seemed to have noticed it just yet. Violet ran towards the smoke, hoping that it was just another ghostly illusion but when she felt the library door, she snatched her hand back from the heat emulating from it. Instantly, the beeping of the fire alarm set off and everyone looked around at one another started and confused.

"Everyone out, there's a fire!" Violet yelled. She received awkward glances in return.

Idiots!

"I said get out!"

"Hurry!" Tate yelled at her defense, and it registered among Vivien and Ben's face that this was becoming increasingly serious.

The library door flew open, flames exploding into the living area. Violet was blown back from the heat, but through the intense burning and smoke she could see Lorraine standing in the middle of the flames, half charred, and laughing.

"There's someone in there!" a party guest exclaimed.

"We can't get out! The door won't open!" another announced. Panic began to set in as the direness of the situation became apparent. Ben and Vivien, along with Moira, began aiding to the patrons desperately seeking a way out. Violet stared back at Tate and read his mind instantly: Sawyer and the babies.

"My babies!" Rebecca shrieked from the other side of the room. She broke free from her husband's grip and ran to the stairs, only to find a phantom fire erupt at the top of the stairs, two burnt little girls standing in the midst of the flames and staring back at her. Horror crossed her face as she realized that the upstairs was now a blistering inferno, and she had no way to get to the babies.

The Tiffany glass in the windows shattered under the pressure of a party chair Ben used to find an opening. One by one, party goers shoved their way through the small opening of the side window, cutting themselves among the broken glass. They scurried across the lawn to look up at the glorious, 1920's Victorian California mansion engulfed in flames.

Violet ran out onto the lawn and glanced up, noticing her old bedroom window open and Sawyer hanging out, yelling for help with a screaming Phebe in her arms and Caden crying as he was clutched to her hip.

"They're still up there! We need to help!" Violet screamed to no one in particular. Within moments, Richard and Ben were trying to shimmy up the house high enough to get the babies from Sawyer, Tate running over from the side of the house with an old ladder to help. Terrified and shaking, Violet watched helplessly as Sawyer handed the crying infant to her father, who passed her downwards to Ben and finally into her mother's waiting arms, Caden soon after following suit. As soon as Sawyer moved in towards the ladder, the left leg snapped under the pressure, sending the men tumbling to the ground, and Sawyer snapped backwards, slamming her head on the window sill and landing back in on the bedroom floor.

"Sawyer!" a scream erupted from Tate's chest, and without a second thought, he ran as fast as he could back into the flames. Rebecca and the others stared on, horrified but unable to stop the brave boy from running inside to the awaiting inferno.

And it was instantly clear to Violet that no matter what happened to Sawyer, she and Tate were done for good.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tate Langdon<strong>_

_Don't! Don't you dare die on me!_

Tate finally got the door to budge, blown back by the burning inferno from the room. He coughed incessantly as he felt his lungs ache for air. Being dead didn't make walking through fire any easier. He searched through the smoke and saw Sawyer's crumpled body in a ball on the under the open window. She wasn't touched by the fire, but it seemed to be closing in. He hurried to her, more terrified than he ever had in his entire life. It wasn't that she could die. He knew if she died she would be his forever. It was the idea of her dying this way. He was almost certain the image of her burning alive would destroy him. He would never be able to get the image out of his head.

He finally reached her body, flipping her over. He stared down at her beautiful face, even with soot dressing it in black and her hair lightly singed from flames. He hoisted her up over his shoulder and hurried out of the room as fast as he could, his pant legs catching fire as her whisked past, but he didn't care. He needed to get her out, out of the house before the flames consumed her.

He hurried past the stairs, down the hallway that seemed the stretched on forever. The house seemed to scream in agony as it was consumed and destroyed by the flames from the inside out. The creaking floorboards moaned and he could see the inhabitants of the house staring onwards from the safety from outside. Where would they go? What did this mean? And more importantly, if it was the house itself that kept them there, why hadn't they thought of destroying it before?

Tate threw Sawyer onto the lawn and immediately began to check her for signs of life. In his hysterical state, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to register anything completely, so he just opted for beginning CPR immediately. Tate pounded on her chest, trying to see her face through his tears. He didn't remember beginning to cry, the tears came out of nowhere. When she wasn't responding, he heard a horrible yell, a sob that ripped his soul from his core. It wasn't until he came to that he realized that the scream had come from him. And everything that had confused him for so long suddenly made sense.

Tate loved her. And he loved her so much that he wanted more for her than a life with him. He thought about all of the things she would never do, the places she would never go. The single most important thing in his life from the moment he had met her had become Sawyer Greene. And she was slipping away right in front of him, and the fact that he couldn't save her made him realize that he would never forgive himself. And that if the house was gone, there was nothing there binding them to one another. She would cross over. And he would burn in his own hell.

Firemen began dousing the flames and the paramedics took over, grabbing Sawyer's lifeless body from Tate. Tate watched helplessly as they checked for a pulse, administered CPR and put Sawyer in the ambulance and sped away, while the dying flames roared behind him. He fell to his knees, tears falling from his eyes in waves while giant sobs shook his body. If she didn't make it, he would never see her again. For a moment he couldn't remember why he wanted to save her, knowing full well that if he had just let her expire then he could hold her, kiss her, promise her that it would be alright. But there she was. Alone. On her way to the hospital with strangers.

He watched the ambulance drive away towards the end of the street, before they shut their lights off. There was no reason to rush. She was gone.

And he felt numb. Deaf. Blind.

_Nothing._

People crowded around him to ask if he was okay, another set of paramedics checking his eyes and his pulse but he just sat there, motionless as the house collapsed in behind him.

Now what? What did this mean? Were they bound to this plot of land or were they free? He looked around and everything seemed to move in slow motion. Vivien and Ben held each other closely, Violet and Moira looking on nearby. The party-goers began to fan off, apologizing to the hosts before hurrying to their homes, where they were safe.

He stood, walking aimlessly away from the chaos and into the back yard where he felt he could grieve in private.

Tate made his way to the gazebo, the back end of the house seemingly untouched. From behind, no one would suspect that the whole front half of the house was utterly destroyed. He sat in the patio chair and place his head into his hands and sobbed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sawyer Greene<strong>_

Bright light surrounded her, so bright it hurt her eyes. She heard whispers. Screams. Cries.

"Hello?" she called out to no one in particular.

"Come here, baby." The voice was unmistakable, and she knew instantly what it meant.

_I'm dead._

Her mother appeared before her, the back-lighting making her face eerily unrecognizable. Her mother's hand reached out for her, and Sawyer began to reach back, before slowly retaliating.

"Come with me," her mother called.

"No," Sawyer said, looking around for someone, anyone else.

"I'm so sorry I hurt you, baby. I never wanted to leave you," she tried. Sawyer felt panic strike her heart as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Mom, I forgive you, but I don't want to go! I thought, I thought I died at the house! This isn't right!" Sawyer sobbed, shaking her head. "Let me go back, tell me how to go back!"

"Are you sure it's what you want?"

"Send me back!"

Sawyer stood in the black, charred and wet bedroom that used to belong to her. The house was still steaming, a mixture of wet wood and campfire filled her nose. She glanced around, police cars sat out front, the firemen were packing it up, and Rebecca, Richard and the babies were driving away, presumably to a hotel, or maybe even the hospital to check on her. She smoothed her disheveled party dress and began descending downstairs into the remains of the house.

Once she made it downstairs, she could hear his sobs emulating from the back yard; she followed them. She could see him, crying a devastated cry into his hands.

"Tate!" she yelled out, not wanting him to have to mourn her for another second. Instantly his head snapped up and he ran to her, his body colliding into hers with such force the air from her lungs. He fell to his knees, gripping onto hers and crying into her party dress.

"I thought, I thought you were gone! I thought you died," she could understand through the muffled cries. She smoothed down his hair and stared onward.

"I think I did." Tate looked up at her through red, puffy eyes.

"Never, ever leave me again," he demanded. He stood quickly and slammed his lips to hers ferociously. "Promise…me…" he said between kisses. All she could do was nod. He held on to her tightly, his forehead to hers.

"Now what?" Sawyer asked, gesturing towards the house. Tate looked at it somberly, then back at Sawyer.

"I don't know." He took her hand, and together they walked round the house to the front yard where they were met by the others, all confused at a loss for what to do next. The house that had been their prison and their haven was now most of the way destroyed.

"Huh…" Moira said, a thought registering on her face. "I have the strangest urge to take a walk," she said calmly.

"Me too," whispered Chad. One by one, they walked out of the gate, much like the freedom that allowed them to do so on Halloween. Only this time, when they passed the gate, instead of walking right back through the front door of murder house, they just kept walking.

"I think…we're free?" Vivien mused. The Harmons held on to one another, walking out into the world together to find a new place to call home. Sawyer extended her sweet hand out to Tate, who eyed it lovingly and placed his hand to hers.

"Shall I show you how things have changed since 1994?" she suggested slyly. Tate smirked at his love, then glanced back at the house.

"Yeah but…do you mind if we come back here afterwards? I kinda like it here…"

"Yeah," she smiled. "No problem."

And together, they walked through the front gate and out into the world.

**The End**.


End file.
